Dead Reckonings
by Ellynne
Summary: Rumpelstiltskin wanted some magic, some jewels, and some information. Jefferson only wanted to be paid for getting him to the world where he could find them. Neither wanted to be a hero. But, in a world overrun by nightmares, they might not have a choice.
1. End of the Road

_I own nothing of Once Upon a Time. _

The moon gave only a faint light that night, not really enough to see by, but Ron didn't dare stop.

The engine had sputtered within hours of his escape.

Three days ago. That had been three days ago.

It was getting hard to remember.

The first night, he had come across a ruined bridge. It was hard to tell, but he thought a car had caught fire. It looked like there had been some kind of explosion. An accident? A desperate attempt to stop _them?_ He couldn't tell. He'd just been grateful for a post he could tie the ship to for the night without any fear of _them _getting to him, the way they would have been if the bridge was still intact.

The second night, he'd found a sandbar. He wondered if that made him the first sailor in history to be glad to find one.

Exhaustion had granted him a little sleep. Before the nightmares (_the memories_) woke him.

No such luck tonight. There was no anchor in the small boat. Without one, he didn't dare stop unless he found some kind of mooring in deep water, not if he wanted to live.

He looked at the moon, trying to figure out how far it had moved across the sky since rising. How long before morning? How many hours had he been at this?

He found himself wondering why there wasn't an anchor, since the small boat seemed to have everything else, oars, life jackets, even a bucket for bailing.

He imagined someone, a man, grabbing the anchor as the only weapon available, and running back on land to help someone else, a woman, probably, someone he loved, someone he would die sooner than leave behind . . . .

Whoever had owned the boat had never had a chance to come back for it.

So, Ron tried to stay in deep water, away from the shore he couldn't see. The only way he'd come up with was to use the pole he'd found in the boat beside the oars, and try to check how deep the water was, then row further out if it seemed the water was getting too shallow.

So far, he hadn't touched bottom.

Come daylight, he would at least be able to see where he was going. He wondered how far he had to go to reach the sea, wondered if he would be able to make it across or if the current would carry him out of the channel to the ocean.

But, the worst that could happen out on there was drowning.

How long would it take? Days?

How long could he go without sleep, if he didn't find some place to stop?

If he fell asleep, if the boat drifted to shore . . . .

There were things worse than drowning.

He deserved them, he thought. Screams echoed in his memories. Blood, and death, and madness, and running for his life –

He deserved to die.

_No_, he had to try. His daughter was out there, somewhere. She was alive. Sane. He owed it to herto try.

He owed it to _her_, too.

_Owed_ it, he thought, tasting the hypocrisy of those words. As if there was any way to balance that debt. Dead or alive,_ she_ could never forgive him – _should_ never forgive him.

Her face haunted his dreams, sometimes dead – horribly dead – sometimes a fury with bleeding eyes coming for justice.

But, this was the only thing he could do to make it up to her.

Besides die.

If his daughter hated him for being alive, he would accept her judgment.

If he lived to see her. If he could keep clear of the shore.

When he closed his eyes, he saw nothing but blood, blood and claws and teeth.

He wanted to live. He laughed harshly. Yes, that was pretty obvious, wasn't it? With what he'd done to save his own skin. The price he'd paid. The price he'd made _her_ pay.

But, if worst came to worst, he wanted to drown before he faced _that_ again.

He'd seen one of them the first day, not long after the motor died when his arms hadn't even begun to ache with rowing. There'd been a small, dirty, starving dog along the shore. Probably someone's spoiled lapdog, back before the world ended.

He'd actually thought of whistling to it, trying to get it to swim out to him. He'd even thought of going in closer to shore if it looked like it would swim to the boat.

Then, one of _them_ leaped out of the shadows. It hadn't even killed the dog before it began devouring it.

He kept rowing.

Drowning was the better death.

That's what he told himself, over and over again through the long night, when he couldn't stop himself from thinking about what lay behind him. He checked the depth, he tried to correct his course with the oars. He hoped to reach the sea.

He wanted to live.

He thought he stood a chance.

When the end came, it wasn't what he expected. Though maybe he should have. Half his prayer was answered.

The ship ran aground.

It made a horrible, grinding noise. Instinctively, he gripped the pole, holding it up as a weapon, wondering how he could have reached land without knowing it (_because he was sailing blind in the dark, because he was too tired to realize he was holding the pole wrong or had touched bottom – No, he told himself, stay focused. See where you are. Figure out how you got here later)._

But, he hadn't reached the shore. He could see the ripples of the water in front of him, the faint, white edge as they rose into the moonlight (he thought of teeth, fangs, something hungry – or some _things_ – rising up all around him, ready to put an end to him . . . . He tried to clear his mind and concentrate).

He poked at whatever was in front of the boat with the pole. Something solid was in there, just below the water. Not a rock, from the feel of it. He wasn't sure, but he had the impression of metal.

Well, it wouldn't be a boulder left in the middle of a river ships had been going up and down for millennia, would it? Though, come to think of it, sandbars weren't wasting any time reforming. Maybe it was more debris, maybe a sunken ship, maybe a load of cars dumped into the river by people desperate to escape and nothing resembling a plan.

Rather like him.

He tried pushing with the pole, then the heavier oars. Tried going down to the other end of the boat, seeing if the shift in weight helped.

It didn't.

He was stuck here.

Maybe, he thought, with a dark amusement that was close to relief, he was finally going to die.

He remembered the story of An Appointment in Samaria. A man sees Death in the marketplace, and the Grim Reaper looks at him so strangely and so intently that he is certain he means to come for him. He flees to the house of a friend, telling him what has happened. The friend gives him his fastest horse and bids him ride for the city of Samaria, which is so far away, there is no way Death will think to look for him there.

The man takes the horse and rides. Years later, when it is the friend's turn to meet Death, he asks him about that day in the market.

"Oh, yes," Death says. "I remember that day well. I was surprised to see that man there, for I knew I had an appointment to meet him that night in Samaria and could not imagine how he could get there in time."

Ron had been marked for death from the moment he ran, maybe from the moment this insanity began. It had just taken him this long to admit it.

He found he didn't care. He deserved to die. His daughter . . . maybe she'd be better off without him, better off never knowing what her father really was, what he had done – better off in the care of people who would think she deserved sympathy as the child of just another victim.

He wanted to see her again. If he couldn't pay back what he owed where it belonged, he wanted to spend the rest of his life trying to pay it back to her.

He prayed she would be well.

But, now, at last, he could lie back and sleep.

For once, his sleep was deep and dreamless.

Till the claws reached out of the dark water and grabbed him.


	2. Dark Water

He was woken by the cold water rushing into his mouth.

Ron choked and found himself gasping for breath between hacking coughs, trying to get the water out of his lungs.

_The water._

It had pooled at the other end of the boat, pulling it down. Now, it poured over the edges. He scrambled for something to hold on to, found one of the oars, grabbed it as the boat vanished beneath him.

He remembered the grating sound as the boat hit the wreck, realized it must have done more damage than he thought, torn holes in the bottom of the boat.

The water was like ice.

If he wanted to live, he had to head for shore.

_No._

Adrenalin and terror warred in him. He couldn't die out here, not like this. If he could just swim –

But, _they_ were there. If they found him – if they caught him –

The wreck. He remembered the wreck. It had to be here, somewhere. If he could find it, get it under his feet, maybe –

He looked in the darkness, saw nothing. There was nothing beneath him but the river, nothing solid.

The cold was already biting into him. In the few seconds he had been searching, his feet were already getting numb. Where was the wreck? Had he drifted past it? How long before he wouldn't even feel it if he touched it? Land, the wreck, he had to choose, had to decide –

He felt claws wrap around his arms.

Panicked, he tried to strike out, tried to shove with the oar –

The claws shifted, pushed. Then, he felt something come up behind him, arms snaked out, gripping him around the chest.

"Stop it!" a man shouted. "Stop fighting! Are you trying to drown?"

A voice.

A human voice.

Ron stopped fighting.

Whoever had him was a strong swimmer. A picture flashed through Ron's mind, the half-day spent in swimming class when he was a boy hearing instructions on what to do if someone was drowning (not that they let the class practice any of it, probably afraid they'd drown each other, remembering some of the kids in that class).

Grab them round the chest, get into position for a backfloat, and _swim_.

And the people drowning could cooperate by not fighting or trying to kill the people rescuing them.

"Who –"

"In a minute," the man said. "We're almost to my boat. Hold on."

Relax. Don't fight. Don't try to kick off and swim in another direction than wherever your rescuer's towing you. Don't panic and hit him in the head with an oar.

Ron stopped fighting.

"Good," the man growled. "Just go loose, will you? Try to float. We don't have far to go."

"I thought –"

"I know what you thought. But, I'm not going to eat you. Or rip you to shreds for the fun of it. Now, hold on. We're almost there." A moment passed (it was probably a moment, it felt like eternity). "Yes, here it is. Put your hand on this."

The man grabbed Ron's hand (the claws brushed against his skin), pushed it towards something. A ladder rung. It hung from the side of another boat.

Another boat. Here. Now. So simple, but Ron's tired brain struggled to cope with it. A living man. A rescue. Too many impossible things. "How –"

"Because I'm a better swimmer than you _and _a better sailor. Get your hands on that rung, dearie, and start climbing. It's not far."

Somehow, the man managed to tread water and push Ron up at the same time. Impossible not to feel those long nails, not to imagine claws and blood.

_They_ didn't have claws, not that Ron had seen. So, the man's nails were long. Maybe he hadn't trimmed them since . . . everything. This was the first bath Ron had had since the world ended. There were a lot of things people didn't bother with when the universe went mad.

But the man could talk. And he'd saved Ron's life. And didn't show any sign of using his bad manicure to rip Ron's throat out. So, who cared?

Ron found himself gasping like a beached fish on the boat's deck. The man scrambled up after him. He pulled at Ron's shirt. "Get that off before you freeze. Shoes and trousers, too, dearie. Don't worry, I promise not to look . . . ."

Ron stifled a laugh. Stupid jokes at the end of the world . . . .

A heavy blanket was thrown round his shoulders. Something else was held to his mouth, a flask. Reflexively, he took a swallow. The taste was sharp and cold, colder than the river. But it burned down his throat, like a river of fire.

He coughed and gagged, a warm glow spreading through him. "What –"

"Medicine, dearie. You can get drunk later, if you want."

The man got up. There was still a little moonlight, and Ron's eyes were adjusting. He thought he could make out the man's outline as he went to pull up the anchor. "We're too near that wreck," he said. "Give me a moment to move the boat. Then, we'll settle down for the night. I've got dry clothes below deck. Food, too. The stove still works, believe it or not, so I can even heat it up for you."

"H-how –" Ron's teeth were still chattering, despite the warmth spreading across his chest from whatever the stranger had given him. "How do you steer in the dark?"

The man laughed. "Some of us ate our vegetables growing up and aren't night blind – and years of practice operating in the dark. You never know when things like that will come in handy."

"The c-cold. You're not –"

"Well, obviously, I'm tougher, stronger, and a just generally better at this than you. I also didn't breathe in half the river, the way I think you did." The man busied himself with the boat, and Ron bit back on his questions.

It was a sailboat, he realized. If it had a motor, it was either out of fuel, like Ron's, or the man chose not to use it – the noise would attack _them_. Maybe they were far enough from shore it didn't matter, maybe not.

Eventually, the man seemed satisfied. He brought down the sails and put out the anchor. Then, he came over to help Ron up.

Two things happened.

Ron looked up as the clawed hand wrapped around his wrist and, for the first time, got a good look at the man's eyes.

There were streaks of yellow light in them, glowing brightly as a cat's.

At the same time, the man, looking down at Ron, stiffened.

Then, he grabbed him, hauling him to his feet.

The yellow fire spread through his eyes, filling them, burning circles wrapped around night black pupils. He pulled Ron close. He felt the man – the creature's hot breath. It smelled of fire and woodsmoke.

"Who are you?" the creature holding him demanded. "_What _are you? _Give me your name._"

"Ron – Ronald Skinner."

Shock registered in those inhuman eyes. Then, he shoved Ron away, throwing him onto the deck. The creature took a step back, still staring at him.

Then, slowly, they eyes closed for a moment, the yellow fire vanishing.

When they opened again, their light was dimmed. Slowly, the fire faded back to the streaks Ron had first seen.

The creature gave a high pitched, eerie laugh. "And here I thought the gods of this world were just a pack of sadists. It seems they have a sense of humor after all. Sorry about that, dearie. You startled me."


	3. Lies and Truths

_Bae._

Rumplestiltskin stared at the familiar face. Older – years older – but undeniably familiar.

It couldn't be – he _knew _it couldn't be. It was a trick, a lie. And yet –

Then, the man told him his name.

Rumplestiltskin pushed him away, fighting the urge to kill him, to throw him over the side of the boat, to burn him alive, to –

No, none of that. He'd made a deal. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his mind.

The crude, obvious death running around laying waste to this land had left him thinking whatever gods or devils ran it must be equally crude and obvious (say what he would about the fairies back home – and he had said a great deal – they had some turn for subtlety. When they'd destroyed _his_ world, the blade had been so smooth he had barely felt it sliding into his heart until they had torn it right out of him).

It seemed the local powers that be were capable of better things after all.

He couldn't keep from laughing at it all (not that he tried).

All right, score one for them.

He'd spent centuries studying the ways of the many worlds, the ways they touched and overlapped. He'd read of this. Reflections, some called them. Echoes. There were things, places – even people – that sometimes mirrored things in other worlds.

Ronald Skinner. Rumplestiltskin. The name was as close as this world could probably contrive.

That was what he'd seen in the other man's face, that's what had reminded him of Bae.

He'd almost forgotten how he'd looked as a mortal man (not that he'd had much chance to think about it back then. Mirrors were for the rich in those days. Men like Rumplestiltskin caught glimpses of themselves in ponds and streams. He'd known Bae's face much better than he'd ever known his own).

He thought the man's hair was darker than his had been, as were the eyes. Closer to Bae's. Not that it mattered.

So, this was what fate had sent him, another coward, another man who ran from the people who needed him just when they needed him most.

He thought over the words of the deal. No, no loophole. The man was to be brought back alive – alive and unharmed, more's the pity.

He pushed the anger away and pulled the man up. "Come on, the food I promised is this way." He tried to direct the man in the right direction. But the man, perhaps naturally, wasn't cooperating.

"_What are you?_"

The question was barely more than a whisper, but Rumplestiltskin knew they wouldn't get anywhere till he answered it.

So, he lied.

Well, not _lied_, of course. He had rules about that sort of thing. He never _lied. _Merely deceived, merely twisted the truth up to be anything but true.

"What do you know about _them?_ About the infected?"

"They're crazy and they kill people."

Yes, dwell on the obvious. "_Besides _that. What do you know about how the disease began?"

"The news, back when there was still news, gave different stories. Most said it was something some scientists had made, something that escaped from a lab."

"That's about what I heard. But, it seems they weren't the only mad scientists out there. Or maybe making something like me was a side line – or maybe it was what they were after from the start. I don't know. But, here I am."

"I don't understand."

Oh, but he did. Or he was beginning to. Rumplestiltskin thought of his predecessor, Zoso (and there were people in his world who thought _he_ had a strange name). Zoso had been far less scrupulous in using his power than Rumplestiltskin was, no moral compunctions _at all. _Zoso may have caught Rumplestiltskin with a deal he hadn't fully understood, but Rumplestiltskin also knew the old wizard wouldn't have hesitated to break any deal he'd made just to get what he wanted. _He_ wouldn't have hesitated to throw Ron overboard (Rumplestiltskin allowed himself a slight twinge of envy. But he'd only broken one deal in his life. And he'd promised himself long ago he wasn't going to break anymore. Ever).

Zoso, Rumplestiltskin thought, would have made an excellent mad scientist. He didn't mind describing him as such.

So, he told Ron about a man who'd offered him a deal that, Rumplestiltskin admitted, he hadn't fully understood at the time. "You might say I signed up to be a guinea pig," he told him. "It . . . changed me. And, then, I was trapped." Trapped. Trapped with his power. Trapped in a world where he couldn't reach Bae. Trapped, perhaps, in other ways, too. Let Ron interpret it how he would. "But, when things fell apart . . . . You saw what happened here. Some people ran. A lot of people died." He resisted the urge to make several jokes or laugh about the poor dearies. He knew from experience how something like _that_ fouled up a negotiation. "A lot of other people . . . aren't people anymore.

"And, then, there's me. I don't get the disease – believe me, I've been exposed enough to know. And I'm very good at killing _them._" It was, Rumplestiltskin reflected, one of the few things that kept this trip from being unbearably boring (and frustrating, but no reason to dwell on that either). They would attack and he would slaughter them – and even Bae at his most strict couldn't have objected to his father carving apart any of _them_.

"Why?" Ron asked. "Why make you?"

And perhaps this man would provide some amusement, too. That, at least, hadn't been an unintelligent question. "Like I said, dearie, it's mostly guesses on my part. No one sits the guinea pig down and explains what the experiments about.

"But, the disease kills everything in the brain but aggression and hunger. Even survival instinct – ta-ta! Gone. Suppose that was an accident? A_ little_ more than what they really wanted? Suppose they wanted something a little closer to me? Someone who can, for example, take out dozens of things like _them?_ I'm not _aggressive_, but I think I'm a bit more, oh, I don't know, _callous_ than I used to be. And funnier. I think it must have been _years_ since I'd cracked a joke before this was done to me. Pity there's no place left to do stand up comedy. Though, I suppose the audience would take one look at me and run out the doors screaming – and that's only funny the first time."

He heard Ron swallow. "So . . . what, exactly, do you look like?"

The man was still afraid, though he managed to speak calmly enough. Rumplestiltskin thought about doing what any cautious, sane person bent on surviving in this very sick, depraved excuse for a world: ask him to come below deck and wait till the door was properly closed before striking a light.

Except that it also sounded like the sort of things ogres and witches said before stuffing children in ovens or slicing them up for ingredients.

Despite the differences in their world, he suspected Ron would be able to think of some similar images.

So, Rumplestiltskin jettisoned sanity to keep the conversation rolling.

He found the lantern (_he_, after all, didn't have any trouble seeing in this light) and lit it.

There was the expected, quickly indrawn breath (though it managed to stop just short of being a gasp), but Ron's eyes only widened a little bit as he took it all in, gold-green scales, black claws, black and brown teeth - sharp as razors – eyes of red and brown with streaks of yellow, the pupils too big, leaving only a bit of white at the edge.

His clothes, other than still being wet and dripping (the cold didn't bother Rumplestiltskin – and _he_ wasn't going to strip in front of strangers unless there was a much better punch line waiting at the end, though he was making them dry faster than they ought), were normal for this world, worn trousers and a sweater (these people, he thought, had a sad prejudice against silk and leather. Just wearing it would have severely hurt his credibility).

Except for being, well, _him_, there was nothing strange about him at all.

Distantly – still too distant for Ron to hear – he heard the infected screaming excitedly over the light.

They were well out in the middle of the river, and none of _them_ could swim to save their souls (assuming they had any, which Rumplestiltskin didn't), so he wouldn't have to kill any.

Pity.

"Come on down," he said. "I'll get you those clothes. And a hot meal. And, believe it or not, the boat has a working shower. It's just heated river water, but you're welcome to it.

"I promise you," he shoved the idea of throwing Ron into the river – or onto shore – out of his mind and smiled. "You're safe here."


	4. Hide and Seek

A city made of towers and palaces the size of mountains with roads of solid stone.

But no people.

Not unless you counted the bones scattered here and there in the streets and the stains of blood the frequent rains had not yet cleared away.

Or, Jefferson thought, himself and Rumplestiltskin.

Jefferson was wearing the plague gear the Dark One had given him. What little he knew of the Dark One said that he always kept his deals, and the mad wizard had been quite clear about getting Jefferson through this alive and more or less sane (the euphemism, Rumplestiltskin had explained, for "not a ravening, murderous monster). This protective gear was supposed to help insure that.

But, Jefferson had been suspecting for several days now that Rumplestiltskin just enjoyed humiliating people.

The outer suit was made entirely of leather. Loose, baggy leather pants were tucked into leather boots. Loose, leather vest over a leather tunic. Loose, leather sleeves tucked into leather gloves. A capelike coat that fluttered around him like bat wings. He wore a tight fitting, leather hood that covered everything but his face. _That _was covered by goggles and a small breath mask with a larger breathing mask shaped like something chopped off a cross between a giant stork and a monster crow, all leather.

And, on top of that, a hat. Because Rumplestiltskin insisted.

"It's your trademark," he'd said. "And every good story needs a memorable detail."

Since no one was going to _see_ these 'memorable details,' Jefferson didn't see that it mattered, any more than the 'cover story' Rumplestiltskin had made up for them and made Jefferson memorize mattered.

But, as they walked through the empty streets, Jefferson began to feel more and more grateful for the gear.

He also felt grateful for the weapons Rumplestiltskin had supplied him with and made certain he'd learned to use. So far, Jefferson had had nothing to do but take a few potshots at the things Rumplestiltskin hadn't quite gotten around to while dealing with more immediate problems, but it was good to know he wasn't completely helpless if Rumplestiltskin became too distracted.

And he got distracted. He had been dragging Jefferson all over this city of the dead. Sometimes, he seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, like the time he had taken Jefferson to an abandoned fortress, a series of great walls and towers made of white stone, where he had broken open a few heavily fortified doors, kicked aside some much gnawed bones, and ransacked an abandoned treasure room with enough gold and jewels to make King Midas sit up and take notice (a twentieth part of which, as per the deal, would be Jefferson's, payment for getting them here).

Other times, he seemed to just be looking around for whatever took his fancy as they went through museums, mansions, old shops, and tiny cottages.

Once, in the far outskirts of the city, they had been walking past the dead homes when Rumplestiltskin stopped in his tracks. He had looked around, like a hound catching a scent. Then, he ran over to one of the empty houses, jumped the fence surrounding the back garden, and had painstakingly sorted through a patch of snowbells till he found one particular flower. He had plucked it with great care, produced a small, glass vial to store it in before putting it in his pocket, and looked immensely pleased with himself for the rest of the day.

Magic, Jefferson supposed.

But, Jefferson was reasonably sure, there was still something specific Rumplestiltskin was looking for. He took them to small hills, graveyards, old churches, places that seemed to have nothing in common except for the fact that Rumplestiltskin would find a certain spot, stand there with the same, intent look he had had before finding the snowbell, then shake his head and walk away, disappointed.

Whatever he was looking for, Jefferson was trapped in this world till he found it.

And he would have to wear these ridiculous – but possibly soul saving – clothes till that happened.

He contemplated them again. The leather was particularly ugly shade of dark brown and had been soaked in some vile smelling, black oil. It was, Rumplestiltskin assured him, an absolute protection against the plague that had ravaged this land.

Though not, he'd admitted, an absolute protection against the carriers of the plague. For that, he would still have to rely on the Dark One and his capricious moods.

And the weapons he'd given him.

At least there was something enchanted about the suit, Jefferson thought. By rights, he should have died of heat stroke by now. Instead, he was only moderately uncomfortable.

And humiliated. Rumplestiltskin could say what he liked, Jefferson just _knew_ someone was going to see him like this.

Then, he heard the screaming.


	5. The Price of Learning

Rumplestiltskin grabbed Jefferson by the shoulder before he could dash off in the direction of the screams.

"Oh, no, laddie. I promised to get you home alive, remember?"

"But, you can't – _Listen_ to them – "

Rumpetstiltskin grinned, waiting for Jefferson to go through all the expected protests, before explaining the facts to him (he wove a few spells as he did it, no reason not to arrive in time just because they had to have a little discussion). The boy was new to his magic, this hat travelling gift of his, and had yet to learn its limits – or that death did not sit patiently by waiting for foolish boys to learn from their mistakes before taking an interest in them.

Or that playing hero came at a cost.

Although, if Jefferson _had_ learned to think these things through, he might have realized that anything screaming like that was a desperate soul indeed, and Rumplestiltskin would hardly just walk away from the opportunities _that_ suggested.

He just wasn't going to admit it up front.

But, Jefferson surprised him. No lengthy arguments or appeals to Rumplestiltskin's (ahem) humanity. He just said, "I'll give you half my cut."

Oh, bright boy. Rumplestiltskin suspected he'd enjoy working with him in the future.

"Then, come on."

Rumplestiltskin took off at a run, Jefferson trailing behind him.

It was only a few yards, down one street, turn, and then –

Oh, ho, _ho_. Yes, he'd have come here for this even without Jefferson's urging.

He _loved_ the monsters of this place, the horrible, brutal, kill as many as you want and laugh while you do it _monsters._

Knives and swords weren't usually his weapons of choice. But, that was how he'd begun, killing Zoso – at Zoso's own urging (all these years later, Rumplestiltskin had learned to appreciate what a good joke that had been) – killing the men who made their living dragging children off to die in the wars and who would have taken his son.

There was something so simple and enjoyable in using them.

Especially with creatures like these, creatures he knew no one – not even Bae – would have objected to him killing.

There was also a woman. She was trying to hold a trio off with a nothing more than a garden hoe, a small child crouched behind her. Easy enough to see how _that_ was going to go. But a larger horde was already advancing at a nice, quick trot down the street. This was going to get messy _fast._

He sighed happily. Wonderful.

Rumplestiltskin leaped, burying his knives in the hearts of the two closest to the woman. Then, he pulled the blades out and buried one in the neck of the third.

He saw Jefferson running towards him, probably to try and help and get in his way.

"In the house!" Rumplestiltskin ordered. "There are people still alive in there!"

Jefferson nodded and changed direction.

Stupid boy. Rumplestiltskin had put quite a few protections into that (very humorous looking) suit. Jefferson ought to be safe enough. But, he didn't _know_ that. He didn't know what was waiting for him in that house – and the people he was trying to save might have as much reason to attack him as the creatures he was trying to save them from.

Oh, well, experience really was the only teacher.

Rumplestiltskin grinned and charged into the enemy. He saw the mad hunger in their eyes. They knew only two things, hunger and rage.

Oh, and a third thing: they knew how to satisfy both hunger and rage by butchering their victims.

Really, the only thing wrong with them as enemies was that they couldn't appreciate how funny it was when he killed them.

Knowing that didn't keep him from laughing as his blades whirled through them.


	6. Fighting to Stand

The screaming woke up Alix. Adrenalin won out over sickness and exhaustion. Without even thinking about it, she jumped up and grabbed her spear.

It was a pretty pathetic spear, just an old broom handle that had had one of its ends sharpened and (she hoped) hardened. But, it was the best – and only – weapon she had.

Most of the noise, she realized, was from outside. But, as she ran down the stairs, she saw light streaming in – from the_ open_ door.

What had happened? Had Flynn finally lost it and let _them_ in? Had _they_ broken in without her even knowing what was going on? She'd been throwing up since yesterday. Even now, her heart racing, it took an effort to stand.

It didn't matter because there was one of _them_ in the house, standing in the doorway. She saw his red eyes lock on her grandparents, saw his muscles clench as he prepared to lunge –

"Hey, you! Over here!" Alix yelled, trying to distract him.

It worked. He lunged at her instead.

Actually, he practically _flew_. He leaped halfway across the room and came at her.

She brought up the makeshift spear and tried to remember everything Jase had told her about the best way to kill someone with it, really hoping Jase had been right. She held it tight, trying to put her weight (what there was of it) behind it and _shoved._

Her spear went straight into his stomach. The force of it made him stumble back, falling down the stairs (Jase _had_ known what he was talking about).

The spear was nearly yanked out of her hands. She felt herself lurch forward as she tried to hold onto it. Then, she slipped back as the spear suddenly popped free of him.

She fell against the stairs. Quickly, she brought the spear up again, trying to get it between her and the next attack.

Because the man was one of _them_. Blood was pouring out of his belly. Anyone still human would have been ready to quit after that. The infected didn't even notice it. He leaped up and came charging at her.

Alix tried to aim at the heart – even _they_ needed _their_ hearts – trying not to think of the blood splattering on her, hoping she could get out of the way –

When the man jerked as if he'd been hit from the side. And fell over.

And rolled down the stairs.

Alix pulled herself up. Her stomach, disagreeing with the movement, told her it wasn't as empty as it should have been, even though she hadn't eaten anything except broth since yesterday (Nana had heated it. Had _they_ seen the fire? Was that what had given them away? No, _they_ would have been down on them in minutes. Wouldn't _they? _This wasn't – couldn't – be her fault). She told her stomach to wait and looked around.

There was a new creature standing at the doorway, a sort of bird-bat with a long, hooked beak, bigger than a man. It held a gun.

There were two other dead infected lying on the floor, Alix saw. It looked like they'd been shot.

The bird-bat slammed the door closed, plunging them back into darkness except for the glow of a couple candles. In the dim light, Alix saw him grab on of the chairs and wedge it against the doorknob.

Of course, _they_ would probably just break through the windows. Those had been barricaded, too, but none of them in the house had expected those to hold long if _they_ tried to get through.

The bird-bat seemed to think the same thing.

"We need a better place they can't get at us, something with no windows and just one door, if you've got it. Hurry! That won't hold them long!"

_It can talk_.

Alix' grandparents just stared, maybe in shock, maybe trying to decide if being locked in a windowless room with a bird-bat monster was better than facing _them._ And she saw Flynn, now, looking like he was trying to decide whether to attack the new monster in the house.

Alix just wanted to curl up and die. _Wake up, girl, _she told herself. _Your life is on the line. _Now, with nothing trying to kill her – even knowing it wouldn't be long till something tried again – it was hard to care.

Wait. The new creature had asked a question. One she knew the answer to. "The root cellar," she said – croaked was more like it (her stomach, noticing her mouth was open, tried to take advantage of the situation. She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore it). She got down the stairs as carefully as she could, grateful for the boots protecting her feet from the blood on the floor. "Nana, Grampa, he means the root cellar. Come on!"

Alix pulled her grandparents back to the kitchen. The root cellar wasn't really a cellar. The house was built into a hill. The root cellar was built into it, a long, narrow, dark room with rows of shelves. It had stone walls and only the one door. The bird-bat followed them in. He left the door only open enough that he could see anyone coming through the kitchen, his gun held ready.

Nausea hit Alix again. She wanted to collapse. No, she didn't dare. There would be blood on her boots. If she fell to the ground, she might touch the blood on her boots. She tried to prop herself up against the shelves.

What if she threw up on the shelves, all over the cans of food? They'd have to throw it away, she thought. Or keep it till the end. They still had enough food but they were running low on water. Not enough to spare to wash the cans off with.

Mr. Skinner had told her it was important to keep clean, especially after using the makeshift latrine dug into the dirt floor of the basement – the real basement, not the root cellar. But, she'd been careless, worried about using too much water, worried about Jase, tired of Flynn's certainty nothing mattered, they were all going to die. Then, she'd gotten sick . . . .

Her thoughts were interrupted by two _whuffing_ sounds, one right after the other. It was the bird-bat. He'd – she'd? – no, it had had a man's voice – what kind of voice did a girl bird-bat have, anyway? – shot something. The gun must have a silencer. That's why she hadn't heard anything before the infected man dropped dead in front of her.

Her knees were shaking. _Stand up,_ she told herself. _Stand up, you can clean your boots later. Don't fall down. Don't sit down. Don't touch the blood. Don't be sick all aver the canned peaches._

He – easier to think of it as he – didn't say anything, just kept watching out the door.

She thought of a picture from one of her college books, Cerberus crouched at the gates of hell, standing between the living and the dead in their dark caves. Only someone had reversed the image. The living were trapped in the dark and the ghouls wandered out in the sunlit world.

Unless they had all died without knowing it and this was hell, trapped forever in a root cellar, too sick to stand, too afraid to sit down, a demon bat standing guard over them. She thought of her last test in literature class back when things like that seemed to matter and wondered what circle Dante would put this scenario into and what kind of crimes she must have committed to wind up here for all eternity, trapped in the dark . . . .

"That may be it," the bird monster said, though he showed no sign of moving away from the door or of lowering his gun. But, he glanced at them before turning his attention back to the door. "He's probably got the rest of them."

_He?_

_The rest?_

His words were nonsense. He seemed to be talking about . . . help? And rescues? And the problem _being taken care of _and other gibberish_. _Alix heard him but couldn't understand what he was saying.

Flynn seemed to get it, though. "He?"

"Ru – Gold. My boss. I guess. He's getting the ones outside."

"Alone?" Flynn asked. Alix had never heard so much disbelief shoved into one word. "He's dead."

The bird man laughed. "Not him. I'm Jefferson, by the way." He paused, waiting for some response besides Flynn's glare. "Pleased to meet you?" he tried. They just stared at him, probably all as mentally numb as Alix felt. _Don't be sick. Don't throw up. Keep standing. _

The bird-bat tried again. "Er, and what are your names?"

Alix couldn't help it. She giggled, despite the nausea. "W-what are you?" Alix said. "What are you doing _here?_"

"What am – ? Oh, you mean the suit. It's plague gear. I know it looks ridiculous, but it works. More or less."

"Plague . . . ." Alix looked at his face. It _was_ a mask, something a little like a gas mask from the world wars. Only, those ended in big cylinders, not bird beaks. Hadn't they? Her head felt blurry. The wings were a leather cape.

"Even if I get blood on me, it keeps it off. I don't breathe it in. And it'll probably make it harder for them to take bites out of me."

Alix imagined the monsters tackling her, trying to rip her apart and eat her if she was wearing gear like that. It would probably just slow them down and make the whole thing last longer. "I . . . ." she swallowed, decided not to mention what she'd been thinking of and shoved the image out of her head. Think of something else. "I'm Alix," she said. "That's Nana – my gran – uh, Mrs. Johnson, I guess you should say. And that's Grampa, Mr. Johnson. That's Flynn."

Jefferson nodded, still watching out the door, "Pleased to meet you."

"Jefferson!" a man yelled from outside. "Jefferson, are you in there?"

"Over here! Is it safe to come out?"

"Almost. What a mess. Didn't your mother ever teach you how to behave in other people's homes? I'm going to put some tarps over these bodies. No point your friends getting infected walking over them. That would rather defeat the purpose of playing hero, don't you think? Stay where you are."

Jefferson heaved a sigh of relief. He unfastened the crow beak so it hung to the side of his face. There was a second sort of filter mask under it that he pushed down. He pulled back the bug eyes (goggles) and his hood.

_Human_, Alix thought, taking in his brown hair and green eyes.

_A nice face._

"You heard him. We'll be out of here in a moment." He grinned at them, a confident, relieved grin.

_This is the moment when the next monster shows up and grabs him in the movies_, Alix thought.

But the moment passed, and nothing happened. They were still alive.

_Maybe I should say something about my boots._

Then, Jefferson seemed to remember a problem. "I, er, should warn you. About . . . about the boss." Jefferson said. "He, uhm, he's ugly. Really ugly. What I mean is . . . ."

"If he doesn't have red eyes, I don't care," Grampa said.

"Oh, no. Not red eyes. Er . . . ." Jefferson seemed at a loss. "Uh . . . you know how the outbreak started, right? Some nutters playing . . . uh, _mad scientist? _And some other nutters letting their experiments loose?"

His words worked their way through the fog in Alix' brain. He was talking as if his friend had something to do with that.

The cellar seemed colder.

"Seems the scientists were doing other things, things with people . . . ."

"Jefferson!" the voice outside called. "I've got the tarps. Hold on while I spread them out."

"It's why he handled the ones outside. He's immune. But, uhm, he looks a little, er, _unusual_ . . . ."

Jefferson stood back from the door, and Alix got her first look at their other rescuer.


	7. Between Plagues and Curses

_Sorry this one took so long. I wrote a couple different chapters that just didn't work before this one came along._

Rumplestiltskin had been laughing as the last of the infected fell. He had turned around, smiling triumphantly, to his little pair of rescuees –

And had seen the woman curled up on the ground as if she were dead. The boy, a small child of five or so, knelt beside her, his terrified eyes on the monster in front of him.

_Sensible child._

Rumplestiltskin didn't bother with subtle as he rushed over – a child that young would be easy to discredit if it became a problem – and a quickly formed curse washed over the blood on his swords, scouring them clean as he shoved them back into their sheaths.

The spells he'd cast earlier had been clear. No one here should have died before he and Jefferson reached them. When he'd reached this pair, he'd thrown an extra protection over them. Nothing fatal could reach them and nothing – like the madness plague – could reach either of them that would destroy their minds.

He rolled the woman over and saw her eyes, whites turned blood red.

The child gasped. He scrambled to his feet and turned to run.

Rumplestiltskin grabbed him before he'd taken half a step. "Stay here," he ordered. As an afterthought, he added, "I won't let her hurt you." Not that he thought she could. Her eyes showed she had the plague, but . . . .

But, anyone who got the plague developed it in seconds – minutes at most. It created toxins that acted almost immediately on the nervous system. Adrenalin increased. The body went into a state mimicking blinding rage. The thinking centers of the brain shut down and almost immediately began to self-destruct. Other changes set in. The body no longer perceived pain as _pain_. Injuries only increased the aggression response. Hunger was the only other sensation the body recognized – and, as it could be satisfied by killing, it hardly counted as a distraction.

Rumplestiltskin had made as careful a study of this world as he could before setting foot in it. He had a good understanding of their science and could translate it back into his own world's terms.

_Everyone who got the curse went mad. They lived to kill and eat. There was nothing human left in them._

With, it seemed, some exceptions.

The woman was already feverish, shaking.

But, she wasn't mad.

Rumplestiltskin looked at her, looked at what the disease was doing the same way he would have looked at a curse, tracking its progress like the movement of dark magic. It was easy enough. For all practical purposes, they were the same thing.

And he saw what it did. Or didn't do.

It had spread through her, yet the effect was completely different. Her body didn't create the toxins the other infected created. It . . . didn't exactly fight the disease, it sought to control it, to shut off the more lethal effects, shunt it aside.

Just as his spell to block the disease had been shunted aside. Because, in this one case, the terms of the protection didn't match what the plague was.

It wasn't immunity, though the effect – for her – came to the same thing. It was . . . what would the healers of this world call it? Oh, yes, an "asymptomatic carrier." He was pretty sure that was the name for it. He remembered a story written up in a library he and Jefferson had ransacked, a woman called "Typhoid Mary." She had carried a deadly disease but had no symptoms herself. She'd infected – and killed – dozens because she wouldn't believe she could be the source of the outbreaks.

"Don't touch her," he told the boy, while his mind raced.

It was a delightful paradox. When the gods dropped a gift like this in your lap, whether you trusted them or not, you didn't just leave it lying in the dust. You found a use for it.

Whether you called it a disease or a curse, it was a deadly, destructive force that nothing on this world had been terribly effective against (unless you counted killing the carriers, which Rumplestiltskin did, but he doubted most people here would agree with him).

He had always loved subtle weapons. This woman was something _unique_. She might, quite simply, be the cure this world was desperately searching for.

Or, if they were careless, she could destroy whole kingdoms.

She was unique and _valuable_. Dangerous, too, but that wasn't his problem.

He had been growing restless, trying to find what he needed in this world. What he was doing wasn't working. He was beginning to think he couldn't find what he needed on his own.

He needed an alternative. What kind, he wasn't sure.

But, in this respect, this world's rules were no different than any other's. He needed something valuable, something to trade. To who or what, he didn't know. The people of this world didn't even believe in magic – in general, they couldn't even touch it – but it existed here, nevertheless, shaped by their dreams or – as this land clearly witnessed – their nightmares.

Somewhere, there was an answer. Somehow, he would negotiate for it, now he has something to trade.

Of course, before he traded her, he would have to get _her_ agreement to be traded. There were rules to these things, after all.

Not that he really had any worries about that.

He smiled reassuringly at the boy she'd already risked her life for. "She's going to be all right. I know she looks like one of them, but she's not. Though, you mustn't touch her. You could still get very sick if you touch her, and she wouldn't want that. Do I have your promise? You won't touch her?"

The boy nodded.

"I need you to say it."

"I promise."

Another deal struck. Magic snaked around the boy, binding him whether he knew it or not.

"Very good. Is she your mother?"

The boy shook his head.

That complicated things. "Is your mother inside?" Perhaps it _was_ time to check on Jefferson.

"No. _They_ got her."

"Ah. I'm sorry." He should have noticed before. The boy was filthy with a small army of lice and fleas. The woman could have been cleaner, but she was nowhere near the boy's state – and completely free of bloodsucking insects. Rumple had ample memories of how fast those could spread in tiny, crowded spaces – like small hovels and soldiers' trenches – especially when wash water was scarce. Had she only just met the child? A starving child (he was much thinner than he should be, too) out on the road with monsters, and she'd gone to save him?

Probably giving away where her little band were hiding. That would be a good thing. Souls wracked with guilt were so easy to manipulate.

He pulled off his jacket, putting it over the shivering woman, along with a few, minor enchantments – much more thorough than the ones he'd cast before. This time, she_ would_ be safe till he came back.

Also, assuming Jefferson had done his job inside properly and there were other survivors, none of them would see anything they shouldn't even if they looked directly at the woman.

He got up, taking the child by the hand. "She's going to be all right," he told him again. "You can see that can't you? She hasn't gone mad like one of _them_ and she won't. But, you mustn't tell any of the others about her. They won't understand. They'll want to hurt her. So, you mustn't tell them she's alive. Do you understand?"

The child nodded.

"Do I have your promise?" Rumplestiltskin pressed.

"Yes," the boy whispered.

"Good. Don't worry. Nothing will harm you, here. Either of you. I'll keep you safe. You have my word." The child had given his promise blindly, without negotiating any terms, but he might as well get _something_ in return.

Especially since Rumplestiltskin suspected he would have to do it anyway. He expected the woman would be quite glad to agree to his terms for the child's safety.

A flea tried to jump off the boy and onto Rumplestiltskin. He killed it with a flick of magic. He sent another curse scurrying after the flea's brothers, along with the nits and lice. Pity they didn't just fall off once they were dead. He'd have to give the boy a bath later. And get him a few decent meals.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Moss."

"Moss. Is that all?"

The boy shrugged.

Probably a nickname. And the child hadn't given a family name. Young as he was, odds were he didn't know his full name – perhaps not even his real name.

A pity. True names were such useful things.

And, if the boy had any family alive out there, it would be harder to find them without it. He would have to be careful if the woman tried to negotiate finding them.

Well, he could think about that later. "You can call me Gold." He grinned. "I really am pleased to meet you, Moss. _Very _pleased." No reason to trouble the child with why. "Let's go find my friend, Jefferson. He might be needing a little help about now."


	8. Small Things

Moss was waiting for them when Rumplestiltskin finally got Ron down into the galley. The small boy was rubbing his eyes and clutching the stuffed dragon, made of velvet and brocade, Rumplestiltskin had given him.

Ron stopped and stared. Evidently, the sight of a small child in train pajamas was more bizarre than anything else that had happened to him this evening.

"Moss," Rumplestiltskin said. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"Thirsty," Moss said. He looked at Ron. "Who's that?"

"That, Moss, is Mr. Ron. I went fishing in the river and caught him. Ron, this is Moss." He went over to the galley's small sink and got a small glass of water for the boy.

Ron was still trying to process a five year old child who didn't run and scream when he saw Rumplestiltskin.

Historically, most children _did_ run and scream when they saw him, even when they didn't recognize him (assuming he gave them the chance). But, when he'd chosen to bring Moss along instead of sending him with Jefferson, Rumplestiltskin had had a fine appreciation for the fact that anyone traveling with a small child, even if he does have scales and claws and more sophisticated sense of humor than most people seem able to appreciate, is inherently less threatening.

While Moss drank his water, Rumplestiltskin pulled out the footlocker (which actually had been there before he decided he needed _something_ to pull clean clothes out of) and pulled clean clothes out of it. He considered tossing them to Ron, just for the minor fun of making a man holding a blanket wrapped him let go to catch them since, but decided against it. After all, Moss was watching. The child had had enough trauma.

So, he handed them to Ron and pointed him to the ship's head (typical of boat logic, the head was at the back and was also what everyone not on the water called a bathroom). "It has a shower," Rumplestiltskin told him. "And it actually works. There's also plenty of soap. Use as much as you like. Really. I'll fix some food."

Actually, Rumplestiltskin thought, the man had done a reasonable job of keeping hands and face and anything else that might come in contact with food clean. He'd seen what had been done at the Skinner house. It was all pretty well done to keep the chance of disease down. Not that the girl, Alix, hadn't gotten ill. But that was the problem with primitive living. Even the best efforts weren't always enough.

But there was a difference between keeping filth off your hands and smelling like you hadn't had a bath in weeks. The drop in the water hadn't helped that much.

It was a wonder he didn't have lice and fleas, the way Moss had – though, there weren't many creatures left running around he could have caught them from.

Rumplestiltskin lit the gas stove – fueled by the same gas that was heating the shower water – and began cooking an omelet, nothing fancy and food he thought wouldn't need too many explanations if Ron became curious where he'd found the ingredients. He cooked it in oil, though, not butter. Cheese kept well, but Rumplestiltskin doubted any little bands of survivors near the city were hiding cows.

Moss sat by the small table that folded down out of the wall. "Can I have some?"

"You are a bottomless pit," Rumplestiltskin said. "You already had your supper."

"Please?"

"A small bite, nothing more. Then, back to bed." He was letting the boy think he could wheedle anything out of him. But, that would make him feel safer around Rumplestiltskin – and that would make him act in a way that would make Mr. Skinner less threatened by him.

Besides, Rumplestiltskin was fairly sure they'd been short of food at the boy's home before the wrong things found it, probably living on half rations, trying to make a dwindling supply last. He was too thin for a child his age.

Ron came out of the head, properly dressed and looking less like – well, less like someone who'd been half-drowned before being dragged out of the river. Rumplestiltskin put two plates of omelet on the table and brought over some bread and a jar of honey. Then, he heated water for tea.

Rumplestiltskin filled two steaming mugs, giving one to Ron and keeping one for himself. "I found him," he said.

"What?"

"That is what you wanted to ask, isn't it? If Moss was mine." He didn't say 'son. Partly, for his own reasons. Partly because he didn't think the boy, who was still grieving his mother, wanted any strangers calling him that. "I'm his guardian, if you will, not his kin." Moss looked up at this, not quite sure what Rumplestiltskin was denying or affirming, a worried look in his eyes.

He smiled reassuringly at the boy and tousled his hair. "And I do mean to guard him." He said the word 'guard' warmly, implying all sorts of things – protection, giving the child a home, destroying his enemies – but saying none of them.

Moss, at any rate, looked reassured and went back to his omelet.

Ron was giving him a look like an experienced card player who suspected the other player's bluff.

Rumplestiltskin suppressed the urge to laugh.

Moss was nodding off before he finished his omelet. "All right, that's enough of that," Rumplestiltskin said, gathering him up. "Time for you to go back to bed."

"Story?" Moss asked hopefully.

Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes very melodramatically. "Fine, a story. But, you are staying in bed the rest of the night, understand?"

The bunk room had two bunks, one above the other. They were shaped like to the prow of the boat, like balloon edged triangles. Moss, given a choice when they started on this little jaunt, had opted immediately for the top bunk. Most of the bedding was fairly typical of this world, but the quilt Rumplestiltskin had produced for him had patchwork squares depicting scenes from bits of history in Rumplestiltskin's world – but only ones with rather better endings than Rumplestiltskin suspected Moss had encountered recently.

He tucked the boy in and told him a story about a poor, lame shepherd who would do anything to save his son from the ogres attacking their land and how the shepherd succeeded against all odds, destroying a wicked wizard and freeing the kingdom . . . .

Moss nodded off before he got to the end, his arms wrapped tightly around his dragon.


	9. Diamonds and Staffs

_Author's note: The Thames River in Ron's world is either different than the Thames in our world or Rumplestiltskin is having more fun with it than he should (I'm not sure which). Either way, I wouldn't worry too much about how long it would take someone starting from a town outside of London (possibly on a stream feeding into the Thames rather than the Thames itself) to run out of river or whether there is an island of about the size and shape of the one they stop at anywhere along the part of the river where they're likely to be._

Although Ron had seen two bunks in the room where Moss slept, Gold, without comment, went to the small booth where Ron and Moss had eaten, put up the table and adjusted the benches. They folded together to form another bunk. A comment on his trustworthiness? Don't let the half-drowned water rat share space with the innocent child?

_Because_, Ron thought, _I'll get them killed_. The same as he'd gotten the Johnsons and Flynn and Linda – Linda! – killed.

He'd thought he could save them. He'd thought – he'd hoped – they'd survive.

He'd let them all down in the end.

Gold pulled bedding out of a cupboard. He looked Ron over, evaluating him, then, looked away in disgust. "You'd better let me do this," he said. "You look like you'd fall asleep before you got the first sheet on."

"Have you always had such a sparkling personality?" Ron snapped. "Or is this just since they changed you?" His brain caught up with his mouth a moment later and questioned the wisdom of antagonizing a man who probably could snap him in two like a dry twig.

Another part of him didn't care.

No, it cared. It _wanted_ him to do it.

The look Gold gave him certainly suggested he was thinking about snapping him in two. Then, he laughed. "Since. I seem to recall holding my tongue a great deal in the old days. Can't remember why I bothered, now.

"Moss has been sleeping well the past couple nights, but he has nightmares sometimes. I should hear him if he cries out, but try to keep him calm till I get down if it happens."

"Don't you sleep down here?"

"I prefer the deck," his teeth flashed in an almost smile.

OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT OUAT

Rumplestiltskin went up after settling his "guest" and the boy. He pulled out some of the diamonds he had gathered at that one fortress, the Tower of London, as it was called.

In his world, people understood: diamonds were magic. The dust fairies used to fuel their spells was ground from them.

For the people of this world, they were a rock, a very pretty rock, useful both as jewelry and for assorted, industries. A piece of carbon, they would say, differing from coal only by the pressures that had formed it.

Even though they _knew_ the truth. It was in their own books.

Diamonds were the children of both heaven and earth. The sun above gave life to their world. In its light, plants blossomed and grew, creating link after link of (as they called it) carbon.

When the plants died, some of them were buried deep in the fecund earth. And, like any seed given to its care, the earth busied itself transforming them.

Some were reborn as coal, a soot black stone with the texture of ashes. Yet, where ashes were the empty leavings of fire, coal held flames hidden in its heart, waiting to blaze forth in light and heat.

And the people of this world shrugged and did not see it as wonderful.

But, diamonds were light – light transformed to stone, the very bones of the earth, unbreakable except to another diamond.

Even in this shadowy twilight, with nothing but a sliver of moon and stars, the stone glittered like the tiny fleck of sun it was.

Or it did to his eyes.

Which was all that really mattered, since he was the one who had to use it.

There _was_ magic in this world. But, for the most part, it was hard to reach and even harder to use. It was bent and shaped slowly by the dreams, hopes, and fears of the people – but not by their conscious minds.

How much despair, he wondered, had it taken to create the things hunting out there?

Oh, they had named it a disease, had seen it under their microscopes – could even explain how they themselves had made it. But, Rumplestiltskin was an old, powerful wizard. However natural, as they defined it, the disease was – however natural the actual making of it may have been – he could feel the forces that hovered in its past.

The disease existed because, on some level, these people had willed it to exist.

He saw no purpose in explaining that to them, any more than he would have explained the use he had for diamonds.

Some spells _had_ been easy here from the beginning. Killing, scouring blood from his blades, these were nothing. Of course, that was the shape the magic of this place currently lent itself to, destruction.

He hadn't pushed himself too far on healing. He might seem to pull his potions out of thin air, but he had prepared these long before coming here and made sure to have them where he could get them. A little something to burn off the cold and the toll of the past few days on Ron. The small dose that had killed off the illness in that girl, Alix – he hadn't even added anything to restore her strength. She would live but, beyond that, she still needed to recover at a natural rate. That was all he had done.

He could manage protective charms without the gems, of course. But, in this place, it was much less draining to use them. The protections he'd woven around the Skinner's home, the extra ones he'd woven around the keep after he'd sent Jefferson and the others to it – and the ones around that hideous, armored vehicle he'd created (burning through three gems to make it) to get them there – might have been possible without the stones.

But, it was much, much easier with them.

Now, he strengthened the protections he'd already placed around the boat. He added details as he went, bindings for what could and couldn't set foot onboard and under what circumstances . . . .

In the end, he cast his mind on Ron and Moss. Moss was deep asleep, his dragon (with its diamond eyes) keeping watch over him. Ron had drifted off into a more uneasy slumber (no surprises there), but it would not be hard to deepen it.

Rumplestiltskin focused his spell through the stone. Yes, that was better. Both the man and the boy would sleep until he returned – or they would unless something actually happened so they should wake up. Small charms could so easily turn into curses if you didn't pay attention to the details.

There, that was done.

And the stone had been used up, its light and sparkle gone. It was a dull, ugly brown.

No matter. Its work was done.

He could leave the boat for a few hours with a clear conscience (not that he had one, but his respect for a deal sometimes came to the same thing).

He fingered the hilts of his swords. Yes, he was restless and bored, and there were plenty of _them_ on shore.

He'd even thought of a new use for _them._

Rumplestiltskin grinned. He hoped Ron appreciated what he was about to do for him.

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Ron's defensive blow didn't even have a chance to connect. Gold caught the staff Ron was trying to fight with. Then, he grabbed Ron by the wrist, twisting his arm around him and throwing him down to the deck. Again.

He laughed as he did it. There was something almost innocent in that mad laughter. If Ron hadn't seen the malice in Gold's eyes right before he threw him down, he might have believed the creature was just doing what he said he was doing: trying to teach Ron how to survive.

That's what he'd said when Ron came up on deck that morning. He'd already been teaching Moss – or maybe just trying to keep the boy busy. When Ron came up, Moss had been laughing as he used a very small staff to block Gold's slow, easy, not in the least painful blows. Gold had laughed as well, complimenting the boy on a good move or patiently correcting him on a bad one.

Then, he'd seen Ron. He finished up quickly with Moss and sent him off to play at the other end of the boat – still in sight. But not taking up what seemed to be the practice area. "Did you sleep well?" Gold asked, an amused edge to his voice.

Ron had woken up in a blind panic, suddenly aware of the sunlight coming in from the window over the sink (it had been tightly shuttered the night before but had been left open sometime since). For weeks, open windows, sunlight, they had meant danger and death. During his two, fitful nights on the river, when the smallest splash from a passing fish had been enough to wake him up, he'd been up and moving while the sky was only beginning to turn gray with the coming dawn.

Last night, whether from exhaustion or something Gold had slipped into his food – or maybe the "medicine" he'd given Ron while he was freezing and wet – he'd slept deeply, and today the sky was a nearly cloudless blue.

So, he could understand why the sunlight made him wake in nearly blind terror. But, what surprised him was the deep conviction he felt that Gold had _known_ it happened. Illogical as it was, meeting that knowing grin, Ron had no doubt Gold _knew _– and had enjoyed every second of it.

Still grinning, Gold tossed him a wooden staff, and began showing him how to use it. "For your own safety," he'd said. "You never know when you'll need it," and then began to pummel Ron.

Oh, yes, Gold was enjoying every moment of it.

"If I get close enough to_ them_ to use it," Ron said wearily, not bothering to pull himself off the deck, "I'm already dead. Or do you really think I could kill one of _them?_"

"If you can hold them off for five or ten seconds, I'll probably have enough time to finish whatever I'm doing and check on you. Then, if nothing better comes up, I'll kill them for you. Or fifteen seconds. You might want to try for fifteen seconds. After all, I might be doing something important."

Careful of his bruises, Ron finally pulled himself up. Gold didn't offer any help but he didn't knock him down, either. "Maybe, I'll just die," Ron said. "It might be better in the long run."

Gold looked at him sharply. "No, you won't." There was no humor in his voice. "You'll do whatever you need to, to survive. That's how you've lasted this long, isn't it?" For a moment, his inhuman eyes seemed to cut right into Ron.

Then he laughed. "All right, enough of the fighting. How about I show you how to use a gun? You'd stand a chance with one of those, wouldn't you?"

Ron noticed Moss listening intently as Gold showed him how the gun worked, his toy dragon temporarily forgotten. "It switches back and forth," Gold said. "This way, it's semi-automatic. It will automatically reload, but it only shoots one bullet at a time. This way, it's an automatic. You can send a nice little stream of bullets into your target. That does more damage to _them_ but you want to be careful not to run out of bullets before you run out of enemies, if you can help it.

"These are the bullets you'll be using today. Nothing fancy. They go in, they hurt the target. Nice and solid. _These_ ones are hollow. They're made to shatter or explode once they hit. _Very_ good for causing lots of damage and stopping _them._ Unfortunately, there's also a lot blood splatter. That's bad, especially if you're close to them. They're all right to use if you're on the boat shooting targets on land – or any time the target is a distance away, but you may not have time to switch to a different gun if _they_ get closer."

"Where'd you get weapons like this?" Ron asked. Just getting a hunting rifle in Britain was something of an accomplishment. He'd never heard of anyone getting hold of something like this outside of a James Bond flick. Even with no one around to stop Gold walking off with them, how would even know where to look? "And how'd you even learn to use them?"

Gold grinned. "I was a soldier, once. I picked up a few things. Including where the good toys are kept."

He showed Ron how to use the laser scope, pointing out the small, red dot it made on targets he pointed out on shore – and he did it without looking through the telescopic lense Ron had to use..

"Improved your vision, too, when they gave you the scales?"

"Oh, it was always good. Now, aim and shoot."

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Ron practiced with the gun, getting used to the way it kicked back against his hand (with a force he could feel clear up to his shoulder) while Gold finally pulled up the anchor and started downstream again.

Loading and reloading was easy enough, but it was difficult to test his aim. The shore was far away and it was hard to pick out targets, much less decide how good a job he'd done at hitting them.

Meanwhile, Gold was keeping Moss amused, telling him what sounded like slightly twisted versions of various fairy tales. In his version of the Pied Piper, from what Ron caught of it, the Piper's job had been to rescue some children from a gang of hungry monsters. Ron missed how that one ended. Puss in Boots was more interesting – or he thought it was Puss in Boots. Instead of a cat, the boy in the story somehow procured the help of a very nasty imp who seemed to enjoy toying with the evil ogre before taking his castle in ways the cruelest cat might have had difficulty equaling.

Gold _was_ careful in how he phrased things. Ron doubted any of those dark hints meant the same to the little boy as they did to him. He was also sure Gold knew Ron was listening and was aiming those gruesome details right at him. During one of the more macabre bits, he looked over and saw Gold watching him with his smug, predator's smile.


	10. A Quiet Place of Dying

Ron was still afraid of the gun, Rumplestiltskin thought. What did he think, that there was a demon lurking in it that would take possession of him if he gave it a chance and send him off slaughtering everything in sight?

Rumplestiltskin had seen several lovely toys that_ could_ do just that to the fools that let them –he had several of them safely stored away at home – and he could have told Ron the gun was guaranteed free of evil influences.

No, any killing Ron did with it would be his own responsibility.

Still, Rumplestiltskin had committed himself to teaching this man _some_ survival skills.

That's why he was heading for the island.

It had the remains of an old, stone house on it. Rumple supposed it was a pity no one had still lived there when this plague had broken out. They'd probably have been safe. With a source of fresh water and fish in the river, they'd probably have been able to hole up and wait for the infected to start dying off – which they would, and soon. What the disease gave in altering the metabolism, increasing the body's ability to draw on its own reserves and to maintain higher levels of energy on less food and resources, it took in other ways. They would last a while yet, but most were already past the point of no return, vital organs damaged, toxins accumulating. In a few weeks, the dying would start.

But the island was deserted and the house had been abandoned for decades. If there had been anyone here, they'd fled earl on.

"Do you see that island?" Gold called to Ron. "We're heading there."

Ron stiffened. Land, after all, was more dangerous than water. "Why?"

Rumplestiltskin laughed. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to feed you to anything. You just need a place to practice target shooting."

The island had a long, rocky beach. Beyond that, it had a thick growth of trees (the ruined house was well hidden behind them). Anything could be hiding there. "How do you know it's safe?"

"I've been there before, since the plague broke out. No one lived there, and anyone with a boat to get them to the island must have decided to keep going for the sea. It's safe enough."

Ron didn't look convinced, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

There wasn't a dock. Rumplestiltskin dropped anchor a few yards from the island's shore. It was getting on towards lunchtime – past it, really. Ron had slept much longer than he'd realized. Rumplestiltskin decided to feed them first. He kept it simple, finding cans of stew to heat over the stove, adding bread and some fruit , pears and rose hips (the rose hips, if Ron only knew it, were from a bush growing in his own yard). He calculated how many days it would be before it would be too improbable for him to have fresh fruit without stopping somewhere for more. Moss needed the vitamins, after all.

Of course, there was always the canned stuff these people ate, though canned fruits were cooked almost to the point of tastelessness. Perhaps he should take the time to "discover" some fruit trees on the island, though he shouldn't let it interfere with his other plans.

A large bowl of stew had its expected effect on five year old Moss – helped on only slightly by a spell. He sent the boy to his bunk for a nap. Best not to have him underfoot, after all, with the shooting Ron would have to do.

For what Rumplestiltskin had planned, it would be safer to leave the boat out in the river. That meant finding the right way to get to shore. Personally, he didn't see anything wrong with swimming. It was a sunny day and the water was much warmer than it had been the night before. Ron wouldn't freeze. But it would make it awkward carrying the guns. Boats this size didn't have lifeboats of their own, normally, though Rumplestiltskin had thought of adding one anyway the night before – Ron wouldn't know it hadn't been there all along – but he'd decided against it.

A nice, inflatable raft, that was reasonable enough, the kind that could automatically inflate itself when the right cord was pulled, stored quite sensibly in a locker on deck along with oars, life vests, and other equipment. If Ron had any suspicions (and, looking at his eyes, he did) he kept them to himself.

Rumplestiltskin found a large piece of driftwood once they were on shore and carved a bull's-eye into it (with a pocket knife, he didn't care to dull the edge of his long knives). Then, after a few instructions, he stepped aside and let Ron get to it while he took a walk in the woods.

It didn't take him long to find the small house. It had been bombed some seventy or so years ago, probably during that last war of theirs. Yet, it had the feel of an accident. Rumplestiltskin thought the bomber had likely been trying to hit a ship or a military target.

He thought about pointing that out to Ron, later, a lesson in the importance of good aim.

Well, the way things were likely to go, he doubted he'd have a chance to mention that to him.

He stretched out his senses to the three sleeping in the house.

Sleep didn't come naturally to _them_, not anymore. If they'd had any capacity for gratitude, Rumplestiltskin might have told _them they_ owed him for this little space of rest, a small respite from the endless aggression and anger.

Well, _they_ couldn't understand the concept anymore and, given the use Rumplestiltskin had for_ them_, he supposed it wasn't much of a debt.

A little tug at the spell he'd placed on_ them_, and _they_ woke up.

It was interesting to watch _them. They_ looked around with the same, groggy disorientation an uninfected human would have had. Then, _their_ eyes narrowed, the hunger seeping back into them.

_They_ could hear Ron's gun.

_They_ began moving swiftly through the trees.

Silently, suppressing the urge to giggle, Rumplestiltskin followed after _them_.

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_They_ moved soundlessly through the forest.

As _they_ came closer, _they_ could smell the man, a scent of sweat and weariness with lingering hints of fear.

_They_ knew the scent of fear. What little mind any of _them_ had left remembered how thick that smell was in the air when _they_ fed.

_They_ smelled each other, too. But, that smell was _wrong_. It was like rotting meat. It repelled _them_. _They _would not attack it. _They_ would not eat it.

But, it would not drive _them_ away, either.

_They_ reached the edge of the trees. _They _saw the man. _They _smelled his blood.

The man was holding his gun pointed down at the ground. He looked up and saw t_hem. _

He froze. The scent of fear went from being stale and old to being fresh and blossoming.

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Ron saw _them_ just as_ they_ were coming out of the trees while he was trying to reload the gun. He didn't know why he looked up. He must have heard something, a twig breaking, a tumble of loose stones, but all he could remember was the cold chill that had touched him.

It seemed as though he stood there forever, just watching _them_.

Then, _they_ began to move.

_Their_ lips peeled back in grins – not a predator's barred fangs. _ Grins._

They looked almost human.

_They_ came rushing at him.

He'd seen _them_ attacking before. Weeks ago, when it all began. Days ago, when it ended.

It still surprised him, how _they_ moved like men.

His fingers, without his realizing it, finished snapping the bullets into place.

He raised the gun.

_These bullets_ _go in, _Gold had said, _They hurt the target. Nice and solid." _

He shot. He saw red blossom on the infected's chest. It didn't slow down.

_The infected were impervious to pain. They ignored injuries that would have stopped a normal human. The only way to stop them was to _stop_ them._

He fired again. And again. A stream of bullets.

The first one fell. Finally.

He turned his gun on the second. There were only a few feet between them.

_Aim_, he though desperately. _Get it right the first time._

Because there wasn't going to be a second.

He shot it in the eye. It jerked back but didn't fall. He shot again. The chest. Upper left. Hoping he hit the heart.

It went down.

He turned to the third –

As it closed the distance between them, grabbing at his wrist, jerking the gun aside (it went off, missing, Ron heard the sound of the bullet hitting wood).

He tore his arm free, bringing it up and hitting the creature under the chin before it could bite him. He tried to aim the gun at it, but it threw itself against Ron, knocking him down onto the rocks, its full weight against him.

It was still smiling, but the smile widened. He could see the spit along the corners of its mouth, felt a drop against his cheek as the creature hungrily lunged in –

And was jerked back.

It was pulled off Ron. He had a brief vision of it flying off him. It might have been nothing more than a rag doll.

He saw the gray-gold, black clawed hands holding the creature by its head. Heard Gold's giggle – high pitched and less human than _them_ – as he twisted the creature's head. Ron heard its neck snap.

Gold tossed it aside. "Hold still," he said to Ron, covering the distance between them in a single leap.

Ron's brain told him to get up and run, but his body wouldn't respond.

Gold knelt beside him, pulling out a handkerchief and wiped his cheek where the creature's spit had dripped on him.

"There," Gold said. "All better," and giggled again. He pulled out a match and striking it alight against his thumb. Then, he lit the handkerchief with it. "I suppose that will make you happier than if I just send it out to be laundered, won't it?"

"You – you said there weren't any of _them_ here."

"No, I don't think I did. I said no one lived here and no one had stopped here once the outbreak started. Oh, and that it was quite safe."

Ron was shaking as he tried to pull himself up. "_This_ was not safe."

Gold opened his eyes wide, mock amazement written all over his face as he reached out and hauled Ron off the ground. "Whatever do you mean? You're alive, aren't you? You killed two of _them_, didn't you? And I had plenty of time to get to the last one, didn't I? I told you those lessons would help. Although, you need to try harder. Ten seconds. You held _them_ off for ten seconds. I told you, try for fifteen."

"You – you knew_ they_ were here."

"I should hope so, dearie. I'm the one who brought _them_."

Ron stared at him. "Brought –?"

"Hmm, you know, you have the same look some of _them_ do, as though parts of your brain are closing down. Yes, brought. How else do you think _they_ got here?"

"That –" the simple impossibility of that statement – _when_ had he brought them? And _how?_ – didn't seem to matter. Gold meant what he was saying. And Ron believed him. And that was all it took for the rest of it to fall into place. "That's why you left Moss on the boat. Why you left it anchored out there instead of coming closer to shore. You meant for them to attack me."

"There, you see? You _can_ figure these things out. Given enough time. And help. And obvious hints –"

Which was when Ron had had enough. With a madness that had nothing to do with plagues, he threw himself at Gold.


	11. Before Leaving

Rumplestiltskin had enjoyed Jefferson's reaction when he saw the _vehicle_ he had provided them with almost as much as he'd enjoyed his reaction when he saw the plague suit and understood he really would have to wear it.

Moss, on the other hand, thought it was (as he said, eyes glowing), "_Cool._"

Rumplestiltskin _had_ studied this world, after all. He felt he had combined the best qualities of what they called a family van and a tank, all done up in a nice, shiny black that any new polished pair of boots could envy. The walls were thick and would stand up to an attack as well as any fortress. It also bristled with weapons.

Inside, there was enough room for the small band of passengers and the few belongings they were bringing with them, although it would be crowded. There were several boxes and crates already packed in it (it gave verisimilitude, Rumplestiltskin felt, to why he and Jefferson had been abroad instead of back at the well-fortified keep he was sending them too.

Their entry point into this world.

Rumplestiltskin had already made some repairs to its defenses – not to mention the rest of it – before they left along with his own, specialized touches to _discourage_ any unwanted visitors. But, now, he was having to add extra touches and at a considerable distance.

Never mind. Jefferson's discomfort was reward enough.

And he _had_ made a deal to protect these people, after all.

It was his offer of medicine that had convinced the little band to pull up stakes. For some reason, they didn't completely trust Rumplestiltskin (he really shouldn't have giggled when showing them the corpse strewn yard). But, he had already told them a story of scientists with well stocked labs.

The grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were elderly and in poor health. There were certain medicines they _needed_. Medicines Rumplestiltskin could _guarantee_ were stocked at the place he was sending them.

"And how would you know that?" the young man, Flynn, said belligerently. Truth be told, he had the thick smell of frustrated anger and fear coming off him, the sort who dealt perfectly well with an enemy he could fight but who slowly went mad when all he could do was hide.

So, Rumplestiltskin had added to his frustration by refusing to give him a target. He smiled benignly – really, not a drop of malice showing. "I told you. I was in the army, dearie. I've seen my share of fights. I would have trained up as a medic if things had gone differently."

"Really?" Flynn said with much too thickly applied sarcasm. He sounded like a petulant child, not someone spotting the holes in Rumplestiltskin's story (not that there were any, not yet, though there were a few points coming up he was going to have to contrive on a bit).

"Oh, yes. But, well, my leg. You could say it was chewed up and spat out. That was when I left the army. I had thoughts of being a chemist – something to do with spending so much time getting prescriptions filled, perhaps – but you don't get licensed if you can't make all your classes – or the tests – no matter how well you know the material. Crippling pain is a nuisance.

"So, when you're a cripple with nothing left to lose, you tend to listen when crazy, mad scientists come along and offer you a lifeline – and I'll say this much for Zoso, my leg _is_ fixed – no matter how much the rest of the deal stinks.

"It also means, when the scientists have all run off and left you with the lab, you'd better believe you do a good inventory of it."

Flynn hadn't wanted to believe him, but the Johnsons had.

And it wasn't like they had any better options.

While they gathered the few belongings they would be bringing with them, Rumplestiltskin told Jefferson what he would find when he got back there, so he wouldn't act _too_ surprised. Moss stood by in wide eyed fascination.

Of course, Moss, unlike the Johnsons and Flynn, _knew_ the tank-van hadn't been there when Rumplestiltskin and Jefferson arrived.

"But, you'll be there," Jefferson said. "You can show them where the medicine and the rest of it are."

"No, dearie, I won't. I've had something more interesting come up." Rumplestiltskin led Jefferson around to the side of the house and carefully tweaked the spell he had around the woman – what had the girl called her? Oh, yes, _Linda_ – and let Jefferson see her – from a safe distance.

She was still curled up, still shivering beneath the coat – and her eyes were still horribly red.

Rumplestiltskin grabbed Jefferson's hand before he could lift the gun.

"Oh, no, you don't. She's not dangerous, not _that_ way."

"Oh? Then what way is she?"

Jefferson, Rumplestiltskin thought, did irony much better than Flynn.

"She's infected, of course. How much more dangerous do you need her to be? A drop of her blood, a bit of spit, a single tear from those sad eyes, and you'd have just enough time to realize you'd have been better off dead before there was nothing left in your head to worry with ever again. It's just that she doesn't feel any particular urge to rip your throat out, that's all."

"But, why –"

"We can't bring her with the others. It's too dangerous. And I think . . . she and I may have a deal we can make."

"A deal."

Jefferson also did a dawning sense of dread better than Flynn, the sense that there was something terrible coming that he might be morally bound to try and stop.

Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes at whatever chivalric impulse Jefferson might be getting ready to indulge. "Jefferson, just because these people wouldn't believe in wizards if one appeared in front of them in a wave of brimstone and flames doesn't mean they're _barbarians_. There are people alive and well outside this island – and some of them have skills that could cure this disease if they had the right tools. She's a woman capable of _surviving_ the disease. With her mind intact. What progress do you think they'd make with a tool like that?"

"You mean . . . a cure? But, couldn't_ you_ cure it?"

Rumplestiltskin scowled. That was the problem with working with someone with at least half a brain, they actually used it. "If you mean could I save any of the ones who already have it instead of killing them for fun, no, I couldn't. Even if I killed all the plague in them, their minds would still be gone. As for a cure, one these people could use and understand, all magic comes with a price. That one would be steeper than you can imagine."

"But – if you stopped it –"

"Jefferson, the weight of the world is behind this curse – this plague. This world has changed itself to become a place where this plague doesn't just belong; it is _supposed to be here._ The magic of this world is shaped by people's hopes and dreams and their very cynical fears.

"They have shaped the magic of this world not just so a disaster like this _can_ happen, it was _expected_ to happen. They may have been shocked and horrified when the plague struck but, if you talk to them, none of them will be surprised at _how it came about. _None of themwill be surprised that the people who had what passes for wisdom in this world didn't just _let_ this happen, they _made_ it happen. It _fits_ the shape of this world. It is a _part _of it.

"Changing it _with_ _magic_ means changing the world itself. Can you understand that? There are some things even I can't do, so don't ask me to try.

"But, this woman _might_ give them a tool to do it themselves, a tool they can comprehend and use without the foundations of the world being changed. And I think I see how it can be done. If I don't have to worry about keeping your friends alive. _And_ uninfected. _And _keep them from killing her. Do you understand?"

Reluctantly, Jefferson nodded.

"Good. Oh, and one more thing. The boy, Moss, is staying with me. She risked her life to protect him. I think she'll be easier to work with if she sees he's all right."

He picked up Moss. Holding him with one hand, he touched him on the forehead with one long finger from the other.

Jefferson saw purple sparks of magic. Moss yawned and fell asleep.

"Don't worry," Rumplestiltskin said. "I have an explanation your little friends should accept. So long as they don't have too much time to think about it. By the time they _do_ think about it, I expect they'll be your problem." He rolled up Moss' sleeve. The pale, dirt streaked skin changed, becoming swollen and red. Streaks of yellow green and black ran through it. "I think that will be reason enough for me to have to go elsewhere for medicine _not_ at the fortress. I'll catch up with you in time."

"That's not – you didn't – "

"Really, Jefferson, what do you think I am? It's just an illusion. I _need_ the boy to bargain with. Making him sick would just be nuisance – and if he fussed and carried on long enough, the woman might lose sympathy for him. You'd be surprised how easy it is to burn through good will, even with people who owe you their lives.

"Which reminds me, if things get too difficult with your little friends or with any other problems that come up while I'm not there, go back through the gateway without me. I _can_ find my own way home. Even if it will take a while. And put me in a bad mood. Which means you'd better have a good reason for doing it. But, if you have a good reason, I _will_ accept it. No punishments or consequences. Are we clear?"

"I get to run for home if they're trying to kill me. How, exactly, am I supposed to do that? The same number that came out needs to return."

"You grab _one_ of them to take with you. Four might be a bit much, but are you honestly going to tell me you can't handle _one?_ Especially if it's the dear, old grandmother? Don't tell me you couldn't take her in a fight. Or were you thinking of bringing home someone else?" He'd seen Jefferson looking at the girl, after all.

"I'm not – I mean, I wouldn't –"

"In that case, we have nothing to worry about. Now, here they come. Remember, let me do the talking."


	12. The Day the World Ended

The day the world ended, Alix and Jase had run for the Old Tower.

It was part of the college, now, but it had been part of the town's defenses back in the middle ages. There were still regular, daily ceremonies about opening and closing the gates, once in the morning and once in the evening. So, it _had_ gates. More importantly, it had a good, high wall.

They had joined a crowd, some with the same idea, some trying to run in other directions. Alix still remembered the crushing weight of hundreds of people pushed together, trying to find safety. She remembered seeing the tower gates and struggling to get to them. They were so close, but she could barely move towards them. She thought she was going to be crushed and killed.

Through all of that, she had held onto Jase. And he had held onto her.

They made it in just before the gates were slammed closed.

Alix had breathed a sigh of relief, sure they were safe at last.

Jase hadn't. He'd pulled her into the tower itself and up the old, stone steps to one of the professor's studies. It was one of those odd shaped rooms that turned up in buildings that had had their insides torn out and put back together piecemeal over the centuries by people who obviously didn't stop to consult with anyone else in the building, one of those spaces that hadn't been planned so much as leftover. And then had a door stuck in front of it to make it look as though it was supposed to be there.

The ceiling had had a funny, downward slant on one side, as if it were meant to be part of a gable. Maybe there had been one. Or maybe there was some other story behind it. Knowing Jase, he probably knew, but Alix had never asked him.

On the far side near the window, if you pulled yourself up in just the right way, you could see that there was a space there, a triangular sort of shelf or cupboard that had no reason to exist. The professor who used the room had stashed some of his books and papers there.

"Come on," Jase said. "Get in here."

He'd pulled some of the books out, helped her climb in, then handed the books back to her. "Hold these, and squeeze back." He'd climbed in after, then piled the books back in front of the opening. It was a tight squeeze – Alix was practically sitting on top of Jase – but it hid them from anyone who came looking.

She'd wanted to protest that this was crazy, they didn't need to hide like this. The gates were _closed_. They were safe.

Only, she'd seen the look in his eyes and known he wouldn't believe it.

She didn't believe it either.

He'd kept back a couple books – thick ones that looked like they were in Latin – giving them just enough space to see out the study window to what was happening below.

So, they had a good view when _they_ came rushing against the gate.

There must have been hundreds of _them._ Thousands. The human crowd of minutes before, for all its madness and fear, hadn't been like _them_. The panic, the confusion, desperation and hope, none of it was there.

Alix remembered how_ they_ crushed against the gate, not caring – incapable of caring – that_ they_ were crushing _their_ own, the infected closest to the gate as _they_ pounded against it, a nightmare wave of living souls.

Or soulless, she supposed.

To be honest, remembering _their_ faces, she didn't think the ones of _them_ being crushed against the gate had cared either.

The gate had broken.

Jase had hastily put the books in place. They hadn't seen anything else, not then.

Alix still remembered the screaming.

They waited till the screaming stopped.

Then, they waited some more.

She remembered what they found when they finally crawled out.

They didn't see anyone else, not anyone alive.

But, before crawling out, when they thought it finally might be safe, Alix had risked pulling out her phone and calling Nana and Grampa. She'd been living with them since she started at university, to save money. They couldn't text, or she might have risked a message while she and Jase hid in the dark. Or maybe not. Looking back on it, now, she couldn't imagine risking the small bit of light from the phone or any noise it might make. She was surprised she'd had the courage to call them at all.

She'd called them before, when the chaos began, told them to run, told them to hide, told them she loved them.

This time, when she called them and told them she was still alive, they told her they were at the Skinners, how they'd done their best to barricade the house, to put out any lights, how they had food and water enough to last at least for a little while.

There was safety there, a little safety, if she could just get there.

It was the last call she'd been able to make before the phones stopped working.

Five miles. It was only five miles from the college to the Skinners' house. She and Jase had covered it in the night, terrified each moment of what they might see – or _not_ see. Till it was too late.

And they hadn't seen _them. _Twice.

Alix still went cold inside thinking of those meetings.

Yet, they'd made it.

Flynn was already there, another student from the professor's classes. He hadn't wanted to believe what Jase and Alix told him about what they'd seen. Just hearing it made him angry. Like them, he must have had friends there, maybe even family.

But, what seemed to make him angriest was hearing how she and Jase had gotten out, how Jase had found the hiding place for him. Jase had done work for Professor Grey, the one the office had belonged to, which was how he knew where the professor's secret book cubby (Jase's name for it) was.

She thought she understood what was getting to him. He was terrified, like the rest of them. But, he couldn't get rid of the feeling he should _fight_, he should do _something_, even while knowing there was nothing he could do.

But, _Jase_ had done something, even if all he'd done was find a place to hide and help Alix hide there with him.

To Flynn, it probably sounded like Jase had done the complete, swashbuckling hero thing, saving the damsel in distress and all that.

Which he had, Alix admitted. She knew, if he hadn't run for that room and taken her with him, she would have died with everyone else.

She'd told Jase later, when they had begun to feel safe and think they might actually find a way out of this, that she was amazed how he'd kept his head.

Jase had laughed. "I didn't keep my head. I panicked. I just ran for the first bolt hole I could think of."

She'd laughed too, half-believing him, half-not. She seemed to remember reading once that, nine times out of ten, heroism was just panicking at the right time in the right direction.

She'd wished Flynn could have heard Jase say that, though. She'd tried to tell him later, but Flynn had only scowled. He seemed to think Alix was just making it up to help him feel better, condescending to him. But, he might have believed it – might have _understood _– if he'd heard Jase.

When Nana and Grampa's medicine began to run out, Jase was the one who offered to try and get more.

A mile. It had been only a mile to the local chemist's.

That had been three days before Alix began to get sick.

When Gold and Jefferson found them, he still hadn't come back.


	13. Talking with Guns

They were alive and safe – and likely to remain so.

Jefferson should have been able to relax.

Instead, he was trapped with four people who didn't trust him.

It wasn't so bad with the Johnsons, the elderly couple. Like Jefferson, they were glad for a safe refuge. They were glad to see their granddaughter getting better. They also seemed to find the keep's thick walls and more obvious defenses reassuring in a way Alix and Flynn did not.

Jefferson was impressed with what Rumplestiltskin had done with the place. It had been nothing more than an old ruin when they found it. Rumplestiltskin had repaired it and (so he told Jefferson) added basic, magical protections. Nothing would get in that hadn't been invited. The infected weren't getting in at all. As far as _they_ were concerned, the place didn't even exist. You could stand on top and scream at _them_, and _they_ wouldn't notice.

But he'd _had_ to spiffy up the place with guests coming.

As he'd promised, there was an infirmary, complete with medicines and hospital beds (apparently, hospitals and infirmaries in this world had _special beds_ with railings to keep patients from rolling out and cranks to lift up part of the bed if the patient was too weak to rise herself – and everyone in this world _knew _this. Except Jefferson). Alix had fallen asleep on the way over – or maybe it was sort of a half-sleep, since her grandparents had been able to get her to drink water (there was a case of bottled water in the vehicle Rumplestiltskin had given them). They got her into one of the hospital beds, then took it in shifts to watch over her till she woke up, giving her all the liquids she could drink in the meantime.

But, small things – things that shouldn't even have mattered – apparently were wrong.

Oh, not things Rumplestiltskin had done. _He,_ after all, had even known about _hospital beds._ It was Jefferson who kept making mistakes.

Three sinks had been set up with hand pumps. And Jefferson knew how to use hand pumps. He'd been in villages near the dwarf mines where mechanical toys were common, even if most people simply went to the well with a bucket. He didn't even need any explanations on how to use the clever system that had been set up to heat the water involving copper tubing and a propane tank (Gold had shown him a few different ways those could be used to create a flame – a small one for cooking and a larger one for explosions – when Jefferson made the mistake of asking what an odd, grilling device in the back of one home Gold was searching was for), although it made it tricky to get water at the right temperature. He either pumped it out at its natural, icy cold temperature, or he lit the flame under the copper tube and pumped it out at scorching hot. Alternating back and forth just to let Alix's grandmother give her a sponge bath that wasn't too cold or likely to leave burn marks had been tricky.

After that, Jefferson had helped fill up the portable, metal tub for baths.

The problem was that Jefferson hadn't thought any of this was strange. He thought he was doing well knowing how to use the pump and figure out how to heat the water.

But, these things _were_ strange to Flynn and the Johnsons. However their houses got water, it didn't involve hand pumps. It did involve some system that had stopped working in the wake of the infected (Jefferson hadn't worried about water with Rumplestiltskin, he just took a swig from the canteen Rumplestiltskin had given him that was always full).

When Flynn had started asking questions about the hand pumps, Jefferson hadn't even understood why he was asking.

By the time he understood and stuttered something about, "Gold put them in," it was too little, too late.

Jefferson wasn't sure what Flynn suspected him _of_ – what _was _there that he could be plotting, after all? Being in league with _them? _Planning to fatten them up and sell them to Ogres? – but it was clear he suspected him of _something._

Then again, with what had happened in their world, he supposed they had a right to be suspicious.

It got worse when Alix woke up.

Jefferson had already found the washing machine.

It was _incredible_. Put in the clothes, add soap and water, then set the timer and work the crank till the timer went off. Drain out the water, add more, and crank away again to rinse out the soap. Then, a quick shift of gears, a little more cranking to help whirl the water out of the damp clothes, and they were ready to be hung up and dried._._

Flynn called it stone age primitive.

Jefferson still made what sketches he could of the machine's inner workings. It was _amazing._

But, no one else thought so.

Mr. Johnson, fortunately, only looked bemused when Flynn brought up Jefferson's odd behavior. It turned out that Mr. Johnson was something called a 'garage mechanic.' This meant that he fixed things like the vehicle Rumplestiltskin had given them. It also meant he thought it was perfectly natural to get excited about the inner workings of odd devices.

Even better, it was very easy to get him talking about those inner workings rather than cross examining Jefferson.

It was simple self-preservation to give them shooting lessons.

First, even if the keep was safe, Jefferson realized he felt better teaching them to use weapons. Just in case.

Second, it distracted them from asking questions.

Third, it had to prove his good intentions, didn't it? You didn't teach people to use deadly weapons if you were plotting something against them, did you?

Of course, maybe an even smarter move would have been to hide all the guns where Flynn couldn't find them.

But, it wasn't until he found Alix in the shooting range that he began to wonder about using the exit, the one back to his world or the one out to the infected – who might kill him or eat him alive but who wouldn't bother him with questions he couldn't answer.

He supposed it made sense that the keep had a shooting range. He was sure the guards in fortresses back home had some kind of training ground to practice with their weapons the same way village boys played with staves on the green. It made sense to him that even Mrs. Johnson, who wouldn't harm a fly (literally, Alix had told him how her grandmother always had her grandfather deal with it if there were insects to kill).

But, he wondered what it meant that Rumplestiltskin had thought to include one.

Alix was shooting. Although she was still weak – after walking up just one flight of stairs, she had to stop to (as she put it) "Let the blood trying to reach my head catch up with the rest of me" – she was very determined – and she had good aim.

She had looked pale and waifish back at the house. He hadn't realized till they got her outside how filthy her hair had been after weeks of going unwashed and then added bits of filth from her recent illness. She had smelled, too - they all had, Jefferson included. The black oil Rumplestiltskin used on his plague suit smelled terrible.

He had been glad for the chance to put them aside for other clothes he found in the keep.

Of course, there were some in his size. Rumplestiltskin had a mind for details. There was even a locked room with a sign on the door:

**Gold's**

**Keep Out**

(Flynn had been stupid enough to try the lock before Jefferson caught him and explained a few facts – like "Gold's" tendency to booby-trap things he expected to be left alone. Lethally)

But, the filth had washed out. Clean, Alix' hair fell in gold ringlets several inches past her shoulders. She was still pale, but her cheeks had a healthy, pink glow. It went beautifully with her sapphire blue eyes.

And she really was an incredible shot.

The bullets fired out almost silently, _whiff, whiff, whiff._

After a few shots, Alix finished. She put the gun away and came over to where Jefferson sat, watching her.

"Going to practice?" she asked.

"Not right now. I thought I'd check on you." He tried to think of something else to say. Maybe say something about her hair? That it was looking better now the grease and vomit were out of it? No, don't go there. Tell her that she was the prettiest girl he'd met in this world? Oh, _that_ was dangerous ground. Do not bring up worlds. Or the world. Or any world. He tried to think of something safer and found himself looking at the target Alix had been using. "You're getting very good at this," he said brightly.

Alix shrugged, looking tired and pensive. "I wonder if I'd be this good if _they_ were attacking."

"Don't take it wrong if I hope you never find out."

Alix grinned at the joke, weak as it had been. She had a beautiful smile. "I won't." But, the smile died away. "What if _they_ get in here?"

"_They _won't."

"That's what we thought at the Skinners."

He wanted to explain to her, about magic, about Gold, about everything.

But, it wasn't something you said in this world.

Or it wasn't something he knew how to say.

"You're safe here," he told her, trying to make her hear the truth in his voice.

Naturally, it didn't work.

He saw different things play over her face, doubt, worry, resolution. She seemed to steel herself for something truly difficult.

"You and Gold set this place up," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "But, who is Gold, really? How do you know him?"

Right. Skip over the easy questions. Go straight for the killer.

_He's the most powerful wizard in the world – maybe any world. He's sort of insane. But, not too badly. Well, not _really_ badly. Not that I haven't heard stories about him that might keep you from ever sleeping well again . . . ._

Don't go there either.

What could he say? "I only met him . . . _." a couple weeks ago when he first asked me to take him to this world through a magic hat_. " . . . about the time this began." That was honest, wasn't it? When this began. Or when Jefferson's part in this had all begun.

"But . . . ." and he floundered. Ten words in, and he was already making complete hash of this. Abruptly, he found himself telling her the truth. _A_ truth. The reason he trusted Rumplestiltskin.

"He saved my grandfather's life," he told her. "There was a – you wouldn't even call it a war. A border incident." And what if she asked him about this war that wasn't a war, where had it been? And when?

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

And he was tired of lying to her. To everyone.

"Grandfather, some others, they were captured. They were going to be killed." He didn't mention Ogres. He didn't mention what they were going to do with Grandfather and the others when they'd caught them.

Although, he thought, she could probably believe him about that so long as he didn't call them Ogres, just creatures like _them,_ ones who were just a bit better at talking to what they hunted before they ate.

"He saved them," Jefferson said. He tried to think of a way to give Alix the details – any of the details. But, he didn't know how to fit them into this world. Except for one thing.

"Grandfather always told me, if R– if _Gold _showed up and wanted me to help with something, I could ask questions, I could make sure it was a clean deal. But, in the end, I should do it. We owed him.

"And, if I was in a bad enough mess, he told me to go to – to Gold. He'll take the fingers right off your hand for payment before you're done shaking on the deal, no question about that. The man could squeeze blood from a stone – and has. But, he keeps his deals."

"You make Gold sound like . . . ." Alix trailed off uncertainly.

_A wizard,_ Jefferson thought. _A trickster. A demon or imp._

He thought she might be thinking at least one of those things. She'd _met_ Rumplestiltskin. She was asking these questions. She had to suspect _something._

But, whatever Alix suspected, he could see her putting it aside for more rational possibilities. "Is he . . . a mercenary?"

Jefferson laughed at that. She had the old wizard pegged. "That is the best description I think I've ever heard of him," he said when he had his breath back. "I wonder what he would think of it?"

"Should it frighten me?" Alix asked, her eyes haunted. "How much you're not telling us? How much doesn't make _sense?_"

"What do you mean?" Jefferson said, understanding but not understanding. _Frighten?_ He was human, not one of _them_. Alix, her grandparents, Flynn, they had him _outnumbered._

They even had _guns_.

Why should they be frightened of _him?_

But, they should be frightened of Rumplestiltskin.

And Jefferson, in the end, was working for Rumplestiltskin.

Alix sighed. "What do you think I mean? Jefferson, what you've told us – everything about this place – it doesn't add up!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"How about your guns? Flynn knows about guns. In movies, they always give them silencers that just make little whiffle noises. But, that's not how silencers work in real life. There's still noise. A lot of noise. But, these don't make _any_."

Again, Jefferson cursed his ignorance of this world. Rumplestiltskin _had_ made a mistake. Or maybe not. Why should Flynn know what he was talking about?

"So, somebody finally broke the whiffle barrier. That's a bad thing?"

"And the chickens –"

"You've got something against the _chickens?_"

There was coop up on the roof. It was very cleverly made with a water and feed dispenser hooked up so the chickens wouldn't starve if they were left for a few days – a good cover in case Jefferson had slipped and said anything about how long he and Gold had been wandering around the city.

It also had a very clever construct of straw put around it to muffle the noise. Loud noises drew _them._

Or that's what the straw was supposed to do.

"Chickens are the noisiest, most obnoxious birds on the planet," Alix said (Jefferson, who'd grown up on a farm, thought geese were worse. But, they didn't crow at all hours). "Trust me, I was a girl guide." At his blank look, she added. "What you Yanks call a girl scout."

Jefferson tried to look enlightened, wondering what a Yank was and whether or not he was one.

"One summer, the only place we could camp was by a chicken farm. Roosters crow at all hours of the night. You can't shut them up. I don't know how humans have managed to live with chickens so many years. We should have turned them all into soup or died of sleep deprivation. _They_ should hear them and come running."

"There's that muffler thing built around the coop."

"Nice try. I went up there."

She had? She could barely make it up one flight of stairs without stopping to recover. And she'd forced herself up to the top of tower?

At least, he knew she was serious .

"Jefferson, there _isn't any straw over the chicken run_."

He blinked, not getting what she was saying. "Alix, chickens won't lay eggs if you keep them in the dark – "

"I don't care if you put them in the sun and they sprout leaves. There's nothing in that spot to block the noise. _The sound should carry._ But, it doesn't. You can't hear a thing even when you're _up there. _ Unless you go in. Then, it sounds just as obnoxious and annoying as it's supposed to."

"So, what are you saying? We have demon chickens on the roof?"

"I'm saying you have guns that work better than any ordinary gun – or even extraordinary gun – any regular person's heard of. All right. This is supposed to be some secret, government lab. Maybe they had secret, government guns. Maybe Gold is really MI6 or a CIA operative. Maybe he just mugs CIA operatives and steals their toys. Maybe he uses secret stealth technology for chicken coops. But, _it doesn't add up_. Nothing you've told us adds up."

And what could he tell her? She was right. "Alix, Gold has secrets. Lots of secrets. And . . . it doesn't hurt to be wary around him. But_, this place is safe_. You can trust him that far. Or if you can't trust him, trust me."

"But, can I trust you?"

"Yes," he said evenly. "You can." _Even if I have to take on Rumplestiltskin for you._

"You don't add up, either, Jefferson. What's your first name, anyway?"

"Huh?" Oh, right. These people had clan names as well as personal ones. Alix and her grandparents all belonged to a clan called Johnson. Flynn used his clan name, but his real name was Albert. "Uh, Jeff. Jeff Jefferson."

"Let's assume I believe that, _Jeff_ Jefferson. I know how I talk since – since all this. There are things I say. Or things I don't say. Things I skip around. Things I try not to think about."

Oh, yes, he knew what she met. The way their speech became halted when they talked about – or didn't talk about – the things they'd seen. The haunted look in their eyes when he knew they were remembering, even if they wouldn't say what it was they remembered.

Like the way Alix was talking now.

"I see it with my grandparents and Flynn. I saw it with the Skinners, too. Things we saw when – when this began. People that I don't know – I don't know what's_ happened_ to them. And people I _do_ know what's happened to them.

"You – you never do that. You never just _stop_. Like you're about to say something – remember something – something you can't bear to remember."

True again.

_I came here for a job, Alix. I wasn't expecting people. I wasn't thinking about people still alive in the city, still hiding there. I never thought to look for them, because none of this seemed real._

_It still doesn't. I travel worlds, but it's like picking up a book and stepping into a story. I saw it but I didn't expect to be _part_ of it._

_I still believe that, one day, I'm going to close the book on this story and go home._

He stopped, a cold thought hitting him.

He would be leaving this world and all its nightmares – and leave Alix and her people behind.

"It's like you missed it," Alix went on. "All the terrible things. There's no one you're afraid for. Except us, I guess. You never wonder 'Did my family, my friends get out?' 'Are they still hiding, somewhere?' 'Are they _alive?"_'

Would he wonder that when he left? Or would he be able to pretend it hadn't been real and forget her?

"But, you talk about _them_ the same way we do. We don't need another name for _them_. We know when that's what we mean."

_Them_.

So, there was one thing he'd accepted as real the same way Alix had.

And did that mean he'd forget or remember?

"Well, fine," Jefferson said. "What does that tell you?"

"If it weren't crazy and impossible . . . I'd say it means you came here after it all started. Or you'd been living like a hermit somewhere and don't have anyone to worry about. And you don't seem like the hermit type."

"Alix –"

"Can you understand that I'm scared? Do you know how much I want to _just not be scared anymore?_ Not worry if I'm going to get torn apart and killed by _them. _Or, worse, be one of _them_.

"The only way I can stop being scared is if I trust you. You and Gold. _Trust_ that this place is safe. Trust that – that you don't have some crazy reason for bringing us here, that it's not just a game or a trick or – or I don't know what. But, I _need_ you to tell me _why_ I can trust you."

"I can't," he said at last. "Alix, I can't tell you why. All I can tell you is that I won't do anything to betray your trust. Even if I have to fight Gold for you – and I won't. Or I shouldn't. We made a deal. He promised to protect you and keep you alive.

"And, Alix, this place _is_ safe. Nothing and no one are getting inside here, not unless you throw open the doors and invite them in."

_Throw open the doors and invite them in._

For some reason, the words echoed weirdly in the room in a way the whispering guns never would.


	14. Common Ground

Gold laughed as Ron flew into him. He put one hand up, tossing him back. Ron crashed into the trunk of a tree. "You'll have to do better than that, dearie."

Ron came back, thinking of nothing except smashing that smug smile off Gold's face.

Still smiling, Gold dodged aside each time a blow was about to connect. "Not bad, dearie. You _were_ paying attention earlier. I had wondered."

"Is this all just a joke to you?" Ron demanded. "Our lives, our deaths, you think it's just a game?"

Gold giggled, lightly stepping out of the way of each blow. "Now, now, don't denigrate games, not till you've spent as much time being bored as I have."

"My wife's _dead,_" Ron yelled at him. "Everyone I know is _dead. _And you just _laugh_ about it!"

The humor vanished from Gold's eyes. He hit Ron hard, knocking him down to the ground, near the corpses. He leaped onto Ron, straddling over him, crouching low, one of his knives out and pressed against Ron's throat.

"And why's she dead, dearie?" Gold asked. "Who left her, hmm? Who ran away and left her? Who forgot any promises, any _deals_ he made her? How_ does_ the standard deal go around here? I thought it was something about, 'till death do us part.' But, maybe I had it wrong. Maybe the correct wording is, 'till I decide to cut and run.' If she's dead, _why are you still alive?_"

His eyes burned, yellow flames consuming the brown and red and not a shred of sanity in them.

He knew, Ron thought. Somehow, he knew what Ron had done.

He knew what Ron deserved, too.

And he was right, Ron thought. He was right. Ron shouldn't have lived, didn't _deserve_ to live. He should have died with Linda, with everyone, only –

Only he saw something else in Gold's eyes, something that hit him as forcefully as waking up drowning in a cold river, the secret lurking behinf Gold's own anger.

"Who?" Ron asked. "Who was it? Who did you leave behind?"

Gold _snarled_. There was nothing remotely human about his face, now. His lips curled back from his brown and black fangs, like a hungry wolf's, like the infected that had almost killed Ron moments before. His blade dug into Ron's throat.

Then, Gold was off him.

He stood with his back to Ron, resheathing his knife.

"Get up." The words were an animal growl. "Time and past we were gone from here. We've got to get back to the boat."

He strode off, not bothering to see if Ron followed.

Shakily, Ron pulled himself up. He put a hand to his neck and pulled it away, looking at the warm blood. He stared at it for a long moment before wiping it off on his shirt.

Walking unsteadily, he made his way back to the boat.


	15. Words that Kill

Gold didn't meet Ron's eyes as he readied the boat to set off again. But, did cast a quick glance at him, focusing in on Ron's throat. He stopped what he was doing and got the first aid kit, pulling out bandages and gauze.

"You'll need that tended to," he said.

"I can do it," Ron told him.

Gold looked like he was going to argue, then shrugged, putting the bandages back and tossing the kit to Ron. "There's a bottle of ointment in there. Spread it on the wound. It will help."

"Thanks," Ron found the bottle, a piece of green, cut crystal. The stuff felt oddly warm, like a small, living thing, as he spread it on his neck. He opened some bandages and put them over the wound. Then, he put the bottle away and closed up the box. "If Moss notices, what do you want me to tell him?" he asked.

Because, Moss would notice. And the truth, Ron thought, would not do him any good. The boy practically worshipped Gold. More importantly, he felt _safe_ around him. Ron didn't understand it, but he knew how rare that feeling was these days. Especially to any child who had managed to survive as long as Moss.

Gold shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. "Tell him what you like."

Ron had an urge to hit him. Not that it had worked out so well the last time he'd done that.

"I ran into a thorn bush," he said. "Something really deadly with sabers on it. It's true enough."

Gold did look at him this time, a long, unreadable look. Then, he looked away again, turning his attention back to the sails. "It seems so."

Ron watched the shore. "You were right," he said at last. "I shouldn't be alive. I don't deserve to be alive, not after what I did."

Gold's hands tightened on the pole at the bottom of the sail, the 'boom' Ron thought it was called. "Don't say that," Gold said.

"Why not? It's true. I promised and I left. You were right." He remembered _them_ running at him and Linda. He remembered begging her to run faster, but she wouldn't leave the child behind. The boy couldn't keep up . . . .

_They _had been so close he could see their mad eyes, smell their breath. Like rotting meat, Ron remembered.

He had turned and left her.

Left _her._

Left all of them.

"You were right," Ron said. "When you pulled me off my boat and first looked at me, you wanted to kill me, didn't you? You should have done it . . . ."

He didn't see Gold's hand reach for the hilt of one of his knives, but he wouldn't have cared if he had.

He deserved to die.

But he hadn't, he'd lived instead.

He didn't care anymore if Gold finally corrected the problem.

Ron was offering him a _deal._

Rumplestiltskin could feel the threads of it becoming stronger with each word.

_He wants you to kill him_, the Dark Curse whispered in his mind. _He's _begging_ you to kill him._

_No, _Rumplestiltskin snarled back. _We have a deal. _

_He's changing the deal._

_I'm _not.

Which meant getting Ron to talk about something else. "Tell me," he ordered. "You weren't on the river all this time. You must have had a safe place, some kind of shelter, a refuge. You had food, water. Tell me how that happened. Holed up at the grocers, were you?" _Think of how you wanted to live, think of what you _did_ to live. _Stop_ thinking about dying._

Ron looked oddly at Rumplestiltskin. Perhaps at the question. Perhaps because, if Rumplestiltskin looked anything like he felt, Ron must know there were hot hooks in his guts, trying to drag him into deal breaking.

Oh, and other things, like murder.

But, Ron answered the question.

"We were holed up at our house – my wife's and mine. It isn't a fortress, but it's old with thick walls and a lot of stone and oak. Small windows. When _they_ first came through, the hordes of them, the other houses were easier to get into and we kept quiet and hid the lights. _They_'re distractible, I think. And there was a lot to distract _them_. _They_ moved on."

Ah, yes. Rumplestiltskin thought. There would have been fire and screams and people running in panic. Compared to that, what interest did a quiet, dark house have? Especially to things that no longer remembered what a house was?

"After that," Ron said. "We stayed hidden. We had supplies because . . . well, because of my gran. She raised me after my parents died. She was a tough old woman. She had a farm up north in Scotland. She'd lived through both world wars, rationing, and winters that would likely kill a polar bear. She had strong feelings about having enough food stored up to get you through the year and she drilled it into me.

"My wife, Linda, put up with it. We had a cellar full of canned food, bags of wheat, you name it." A sad smile flitted over his face. "I really would grind wheat for bread – I make pretty good bread –" Oh, yes, because grinding your own wheat was a rarity in this land – even buying flour instead of ready made food wasn't as common as it could be. There had been two grinders in the house, Rumplestiltskin remembered. An electronic one – useless with the power out – and an older, hand cranked one. Ron's gran's, he guessed.

Ron was going on, "But, Linda was the one who learned Gran's recipe for canned peaches. Gran would never teach it to me. She said it was a family recipe to be passed on from mother to daughter – or daughter-in-law. Sons and grandsons didn't count.

"So, that's why we had enough food in the house. Water was becoming a problem, but lots of the canned food was packed in its juice. I thought . . ." he trailed off, the animation draining again from his face, leaving him empty. "I really thought we were going to make it."

The threads that had been weakening brightened as Ron considered his failure again.

"And, once you were on the river," Rumplestiltskin pressed. "What kept you going?"

"I was a coward," Ron said. "_They_ terrify me. Being killed by _them_ or, worse, becoming _them_. I couldn't face it. Drowning . . . drowning didn't seem so bad. But . . . ." he trailed off and shrugged.

"There was something,_ something_ that kept you going, something you have to live for." Because there was. Rumplestiltskin knew what it was to have next to nothing left to live for. And every reason to stop trying. Every reason but one.

The one that keeps you going despite all the rest.

"My daughter," Ron said.

"Daughter," Rumplestiltskin breathed, feeling the pressing of Ron's offers finally letting go of him. "Tell me about your daughter. She wasn't with you?"

"She was visiting friends up in Scotland, near where Gran used to live, when it happened. They had a boat. We had a message from them just before the phones died. They were going to cross the Channel and they were taking Moira with them."

"Moira," Rumplestiltskin remembered a friend of his son's, a girl with honey-brown hair. Morraine, that had been her name. "A good name. How old is she?"

"Thirteen. Fourteen in October."

Fourteen. Bae had been fourteen the last time Rumplestiltskin had seen him. "That's a bad age to be on your own."

"She's not on her own. She's with –"

"With other refugees with limited resources in a country where they may be barely tolerated. If the government dealing with them decides to send one family of refugees here and an orphan – who's not even related to them - elsewhere, what can they do about it?"

"They wouldn't . Would they?"

"It's happened before," And not just in this world, Rumplestiltskin thought, remembering the war he had once fought in. "And what if they have family, friends who can help them, get them out of whatever refugee camp they're in. But, not her.

"If you were them and faced with a choice like that, what would you do? You can save all of your family but one. And, maybe, if you take the chance, you can save her later. Or you tell yourself you can, even if you really know better." You didn't have to tell Rumplestiltskin about tough choices and desperate deals. He _lived_ off them.

What very few people remembered was that, while he profited by offering choices that were the lesser of two evils, he wasn't the one who made the greater evils that made the alternatives he offered worthwhile.

Well, he _usually_ wasn't.

"They couldn't. She needs –"

"What she _needs_ is her father. But he's getting ready to cut and run. If you can't come through for her, why should anyone else be different?"

Ron looked at him, stricken.

But, there was something more in his eyes.

Shadows. Reflections. Rumplestiltskin had the strangest feeling Ron could see right through him, right down to his bones. Perhaps, as something of his shadow in this world, he could.

"An hour ago, you were close to killing me. Now, you're telling me to live. Why?"

A thousand possible answers flitted through Rumplestiltskin's mind.

Without knowing why, he offered the truth. "Because I had a son.

"Because he was the same age as your daughter when I lost him. Because . . . you're right, I know what it is to run.

"But, I'd forgotten what it is to wish you hadn't." He took a deep breath. "You don't need me to tell you why to live. You said your parents died when you were young. You know what that's like. You can't wish that on her." He stirred restlessly. The threads had nearly faded away entirely, but he didn't trust Ron to act in his own best interest. "What happened to them, to your parents?"

"Car accident. Here – well, a few miles upriver. In London," Ron said. "I was five."

The same age as Moss. "London. That's a long way from Scotland."

"Dad was a doctor. He had his practice here."

"Not bad for the son of a poor farmer."

Ron shrugged. "Dad's brothers all died. Two took sick and died young. The rest died in the war. Dad – Dad always said he had to make good not just for him but for them. To do all the things they would have but never got the chance."

"Ah," Rumplestiltskin said. A desperate soul, indeed . . . . Not that it mattered, now.

And Ron would be the last of his family – except for the tenuous thread of a daughter, orphaned and cast adrift in an unforgiving world. Not an easy weight to bear.

Rumplestiltskin remembered a poor shepherd and spinner, kinless and crippled, before shoving the memory aside.

"And you? Did you ever feel the weight to make good?"

Ron shrugged. "I . . . always knew I'd be going to university. Dad left money enough for it."

Expectations or his own desires? Or both? Normally, Rumplestiltskin could ferret that out just by looking at a man.

But, this wasn't his world. His power functioned differently, here, especially when it came to _seeing_.

And Ron was worn out. His feelings exhausted and nearly mute. He might not remember himself what he had wanted in life, back when there was more to want than bare survival.

Ron, meanwhile, continued to scan the ruined shoreline. "History and legends of the British Isles," he said. "That's my field. It seems . . . ironic, now, when that may be all that's left of these islands."

History.

_History_ and _legends._

And the gods, once again, have their little jokes.

The man with the knowledge and skills he needed had been here all along.

Except . . . .

He looked at Ron.

Shadows.

Reflections.

He had been looking for a place would mean certain things to _everyone. _ Or everyone who bothered to look for the things he was looking for. Something that fit the general patterns of this world.

Perhaps, he should have been looking for something more . . . personal.

"Tell me, Professor. There's a place – I know there's a place. A place where grief and loss and maybe even hope all come together, a place that you think of when you think of lost children or maybe just lost childhood. Tell me what this place is to you."

Ron looked at Rumplestiltskin. It wasn't a look questioning his sanity, though Rumplestiltskin knew how to deal with those. Instead, Ron was giving him the same, bone searching look that he had twice before. "That's easy," he said. "The road where my parents died.

"Now, you tell me why you want to know."

"Because," Rumplestiltskin said. "That's the place where I'll find my son."


	16. Through the Looking Glass

"Come on!" Jefferson said, pushing Alix ahead of him.

Alix was beginning to notice a pattern when the world went mad: nobody warned you it was about to happen.

Unlike the last two times, the screaming hadn't lasted long. She heard men yelling and cursing – but no screams.

She wanted to hate Flynn, to blame him for letting this happen, but she knew she'd have done exactly the same thing.

Well, she _migh_t have listened to Jefferson when he ran up the stairs trying to stop him.

Maybe.

She'd heard Flynn bellowing all the way from the upper level of the gatehouse, where the winch for lifting the portcullis was.

"There are people! _Real_ people!"

Real, heavily armed, psycho people.

Who hadn't taken too long to show how psycho they were.

Jefferson hadn't waited. He'd pulled Alix back as soon as he realized it was too late to stop Flynn letting them in and pulled out a couple of small, burlap bags with little fuses in them.

He was already lighting one when the soldiers (they_ looked_ like soldiers in all that gear) rushed in with their guns.

Jefferson threw the bags seconds before they exploded and let off a thick clouds of smoke.

Honestly, did he have a bat utility belt or something?

Then, he grabbed Alix and dragged her down stairs.

There'd been a bucket of soapy water at the foot of the stairs, a mop resting near it – probably what Jefferson had been working on before trying to stop Flynn. Jefferson had grabbed the bucket and thrown it up the stairs at the soldier who was already coming through the smoke. Alix heard him yell and curse as he tripped over the bucket and slide down the slippery stairs.

She'd rather hoped he would scream, "I'm melting, I'm melting!" But, possible spinal injuries and broken limbs would have to do.

She heard a gun go off, saw Jefferson stumble as he pushed her into the infirmary. He slammed the door behind them. It was made of thick, oak planks but didn't have any kind of lock. Jefferson, however, had grabbed the mop. He shoved it in at an angle under the wood slat that went across the planks and against the floor. Then, he grabbed Alix again and hurried across the infirmary.

The underground infirmary.

In a keep with no windows till the second floor.

Alix heard wood breaking, heard guns firing while someone else yelled, "No, you idiot, we need them alive!" felt Jefferson stumble as he shoved her at a stone wall –

That opened, the stones moving aside like mist.

They were in a room, a huge room full of doors, no two alike.

And Jefferson had fallen to the ground behind her.

"Jefferson! Are you – they shot you – are you –"

Ragged sobs broke out of Jefferson.

No, not sobs.

He was laughing.

"Rumplestiltskin," he said. "Is a twisted, little imp."

Slowly, unsteadily, he pulled himself up. He inspected the back of his coat. "I hope he gets a good laugh out of this."

"What are you – the soldiers, they're right behind us –"

Jefferson snorted. "And they can stay behind us. They're not getting in here."

Great. Jefferson had lost it. They needed to _keep moving. _Alix looked around, wondering which door was the way out (did she want to get out? _They_ were still out there. But how long could they hide in here?), and realized how strange the room was.

Door after door, each one elaborate and different, a red door covered with what looked like Chinese in gold calligraphy. Near it was a mirror between two pillars. Further down was a door of pale wood carved elaborately with leaves and neatly detailed carving of a lamppost. Another spot had a door of gold set with emeralds, and hundreds more, each as elaborate – and distinct – as the last.

It hit her that she didn't hear anything, no gunfire, no one trying to break through behind them, not even any cursing or yelling.

This wasn't just some secret tunnel out of the keep.

"Wh-what is this?"

"The way out. Come on, we're almost home." Jefferson led her to one of the doors, about midway down. This one was polished wood, the grain shining like gold, bound with iron. It had the odd effect of looking like an old fashioned book cover, the gold grain looking like faded letters she could almost read against a leather binding.

He opened it, and they stood in a great hall. She hadn't seen this room in the keep, but . . . . No, just because it was quiet didn't mean – this _had_ to be part of the keep and, no matter what Jefferson thought, the soldiers would be more efficient searching this place than she and the others had been. "They'll find us. We have to –"

"Look out the window. Believe me, they're not coming here."

Jefferson had sat himself down in a chair – the only chair – by a long, wooden table, catching his breath. Uncertainly, Alix walked past him to one of the great, red and gold,_ velvet_ curtains and pulled it aside.

She didn't know what she had expected. An army of red eyed faces looking back at her, ready to break in and kill them, that would have been about right for how this day was going.

Instead, she was looking down from a mountain peak at a snow covered, evergreen forest and, off in the horizon, more mountains.

This wasn't the little wood surrounding the keep or any other place just outside of London.

This wasn't any place in England.

"Wh-where are we?"

"Home," Jefferson said.

Alix stared at Jefferson while her brain tried to process this and come up with a different meaning than the obvious.

"Home?" she repeated.

She looked around the room. It was about three times as long as it was wide. Between the windows were display cabinets made of glass and cream painted wood, full of treasures. A much larger case stood at the end of the room. Along the other, windowless side was another table, this one of dark wood, with what looked like a golden fleece, a magician's hat, and more. There were shelves built into the walls, free standing pedestals, all of them with treasures of breath-taking beauty or bizarreness – or both – on display(and if that heavily jeweled goblet was the holy grain, she didn't want to know about it).

"_Your_ home?"

"Not the castle," Jefferson said. "This is Gold's. I just meant we're back where I come from, in my world."

World.

He'd said world, hadn't he?

Alix looked around the room again.

This time, she noticed the spinning wheel.

She didn't know much about spinning wheels. She wondered if Professor Skinner could have told her anything about them. This one was larger than the ones she usually saw in movies and historical recreations. Those had smaller wheels, a little over a foot in diameter, she thought. When they showed a woman using it, she would be sitting down and still have to look down at it, probably getting a crick in her neck. This one was a meter or more, large enough for the spinner to stand if she – or he (these were Gold's things, weren't they?) wanted.

Alix tried to imagine Gold quietly spinning thread, like a medieval housewife, and suffered another bout of brain freeze.

Then, her numb, overwhelmed brain took in another detail.

At one end of the spinning wheel was a pile of straw.

What was wrapped around the bobbin glittered. Like gold.

Gold.

_Rumplestiltskin is a twisted, little imp._

"Who is Gold really?" she asked. "And – and who are you? _What_ are you?"


	17. Serpent in the Garden

Linda had a monster in her house.

A monster who comforted little boys, cooked meals, and threw knives out the window at other monsters (sometimes to kill them, sometimes just to see what they did if they had wounded feet or some other body part). He only did it when he got bored, which was frequently.

He was also able to get the water running again, hot as well as cold.

Despite the noise it made running, _they_ didn't come. _They_ didn't seem to notice the noise any more than_ they_ noticed the open curtains or the lights inside.

Then, he finally got bored enough to tell her what he wanted.

Or that's how he acted. She wondered how much of it was just that, an act, a ploy. "Look, I'm done playing pranks on _those_ monsters. Now, I'm going to start on you."

Something to help the negotiations.

He did make a point of telling her he would be truthful – the kind of statement that always made her wonder how many lies she was about to hear. His manic smile didn't inspire confidence. Neither did his laugh.

He started with, "I'm _not_ a demon. Possibly demonic – it's a subjective term, after all. _But,_ I have _never_ 'hied from regions infernal,' as the saying goes. Believe me, whatever they have to offer in central heating cannot make up for the neighbors. _No_ sense of humor. Anywhere.

"I have been called an imp, a goblin, a hob, and a few other things that, while not entirely inaccurate, fall short of the truth. _I_ am one of a kind. Hence, any labels must needs be found wanting."

Then, he discussed magic.

It wasn't as if she just accepted his talk of magic. But, she had seen the things he did when saved her from _them_.

More than that, she had seen the things he did _after_ he saved her from _them_. That might have been delirium. The first few hours after the disease had hit her had been confused, garbled – not least, because she realized _she had the disease._

And she was sane.

Or thought she was.

Maybe the killers out in the streets thought they were sane, too.

Her scaly, green-gold houseguest had laughed at the suggestion. "Oh, no, dearie. Trust me, there's not much thought going on with _them_ at all. Whatever voltage may still be running through the skulls is largely limited to what your people call the reptile brain. It's all hunger, anger, and how-do-I-kill-somebody? Although, they don't really grasp 'I' and 'somebody,' not much of what you'd call a sense of self or introspection going on in there."

And he told her he had the house under a spell, keeping _them_ out, which had been hard to believe even after all she'd seen.

He had then showed her how it worked, taking her outside.

She must have believed him, at least a little. She didn't fight at all as he took her out, any more than she'd argued when he pushed back all the curtains to let in the light – and lit lamps when it was dark.

Then again, she'd seen what he did when _they_ attacked him.

There were already some of _them _trudging by.

_They_ didn't even glance at them. Even when he picked up a rock and threw it at one, it stopped in its tracks, crouching low as it looked around and making growling noises. The aggression spread. _ They_ were like a pack of wolves, tensing up and ready to attack when they heard another's warning howl.

Their eyes slid right past Gold and her, not even stopping.

"See what I mean?" he said. "Stay on this side of the property line, and _they_ won't even see you."

Her mouth was dry. She made herself to swallow. With forced lightness, she said, "And, if I cross over the property line, even by accident, I'm in trouble."

"Oh, not _you_, personally, dearie. Didn't you notice? They don't attack their own and, much as I'm sure you don't want to admit it, that's how they'll see you. Still –" He waved a negligent hand, and –

Small buds, like the spear point tips of young beans, pushed their way out of the earth. But, these were black. The stretched upward, straight as young saplings, blossoming tear shaped points at the very top.

Others snaked out of the grass, twining around them like young vines, leaves and coal black roses with sabered thorns twining around the narrow rods, all of them stretching more than a yard above her head.

An iron fence.

An iron fence had just sprouted out of the ground and grown around her house.

Gold looked at them critically. "There," he said. "Not too dour – and functional, too." He plucked a blade of grass from the lawn and brought it down in a sword strike motion over one of the iron leaves. The blade of grass was sliced in two against the leaf's serrated edge. "See?" Gold said. "Highly functional. Not that it matters. _ They_ can't enter – no one can enter who doesn't belong to the house, unless you invite them in. Feel safe enough?

"Now, that I've made my point, I wonder if I might ask you for a little favor, dearie. I'm afraid the time I've spent here, nursing you back to health, making minor improvements to your property value, invigorating as it's been, wasn't _entirely_ motivated by _pure_ altruism on my part or even by the scintillating conversation I've enjoyed here – nothing personal.

"As I said, I'm not a demon. I don't buy or sell souls. No market in them, really, and it's not as if they have much decorative value."

"Not even your own?"

He mockingly staggered back, clutching his heart. "Oh, you wound me! My soul is _not_ for sale. I threw it away _long_ ago – although, if you meant to imply it was decorative, I'd have to agree with you. Quite the attractive little blob of ectoplasm, I'm sure, not that I recall looking when I lost it.

"Still, I can't see any practical use for yours. You're welcome to it – I'll even put it in writing, if you want.

"No, it's just the rest of you that I want."

He laughed when she gaped at him in horror.

"Oh, you do have the most _lurid _imagination, dearie. No, no, _nothing_ like that – or not on _my_ part.

"You see, _you_ represent something _rather_ unusual. It's quite possible that, if you were handed over to the right doctors or scientists or someone like that, they could find a cure. Not that I know what they might do to _you_ in the process. Did you know, where I come from, no one even _knows_ the word vivisection?

"You see, I _told_ you I was going to be honest. It may be that whoever I hand you over to will be quite sensible and do things like x-rays and blood samples. It's also quite possible they won't. It's also possible they'll start off being kind and become less so as they grow desperate for answers. I make no guarantees.

"But, here's the thing: I need you to agree to let me do this. Deals are the basis of all civilized behavior, you know – and I do _try_ to hold onto civilized behavior. I won't do anything to you – or let anything happen – that you haven't agreed to."

He was quite serious.

He was smiling at her, as though she should be pleased by his thoughtfulness.

"You're asking me to agree to let strangers butcher me? Is that what you're saying?"

"For a good cause. And it may not include any butchery. I'm just trying to make you aware of the potential drawbacks before you agree."

"You think I'll _agree?_"

The smile vanished. His face was cold and serious. "Oh, I know you'll agree. You're a good person, Linda – _I'm_ not, but I do know how to recognize the signs. You were ready to die – and die horribly – just for a chance to save a child you didn't know. Or was it just so that he wouldn't die alone? There's a chance – I'd even say a very good chance – that you're the source of the cure. There's a good chance you're the _only_ source for the cure.

"I think it's safe to say if you believed – _really_ believed – the only way to cure this plague was to let yourself be tortured to death by the worst sadists this world has ever produced, you'd agree – though that is an _unlikely_ outcome. Just a _possible_ one.

"But, you see, I'm being fair with you. As I said, _I'm_ not a good person. I'm not doing this for any altruistic reasons. There's something I'm looking for, and I need help if I'm going to find it. That's what I intend to use you for.

"You may disapprove, but there isn't anyone else who can get you to the people who can find a cure, is there? You need me.

"Still, you should know your value. I'm willing to negotiate," he nodded towards the fence. "You've seen some of what I can do. Do you want me to see Moss protected and watched over for the rest of his life? I can do that. I can make him a prince and give him a kingdom, if you like. Do you want to see your friends, the people Jefferson took with him, brought to safety and given everything they need to start a new life? I can do that as well. Name your price."

He meant it. He really meant it.

But, she hadn't been married to Ron all these years without learning something about fairy tales. It was always the little things that didn't seem to matter that held the traps.

"This thing you're looking for? What is it? Is it dangerous?"

"No, it's not dangerous. I'm looking for a place where I will be able to cast a certain spell. The spell will allow me to see into another world.

"You see, I'm not interested in yours. All this work you people are putting me through? Strictly a side issue, a means to an end. Once I find what I'm looking for, I'm done here. I'll go and, believe me, I promise, your world will be none the worse for my having been here."

World.

All right, she'd expected that.

"This other world, will they be harmed by you?"

He grew thoughtful. "I don't think so, but I won't swear it. There's a child from my world. I made a deal with his father to find him and reunite them. I don't know what I'll need to do to do that once I get there. If he's in danger, I may have to break a few heads to protect him."

Break a few heads. She doubted that was just a metaphor but didn't pursue it. "What about his father? Is he a good person? Is he a danger to this boy?" She wasn't sure if she could imagine Gold giving a child to an abuser. She'd seen him with Moss. But . . . maybe it was best not to make assumptions about the scaly monster who killed for fun and talked quite seriously about selling people to vivisectionists.

Gold frowned, thinking a bit before he answered. "He's . . . not a good person. He's weak, I think. And a bit of a coward. But, I know he would face death to protect his son – believe me, people don't go looking for things like me unless they're very desperate indeed. He's not – what's your word? – _abusive._ He just wants to see his son again and to know he's safe and well."

"And this is worth coming to this world, fighting _them_, and offering me anything I want? What exactly is he paying you?"

"The currency on my world might surprise you. But, I think what you really want to know is if this . . . payment is dangerous – to you and yours or to anyone else. It's not." His seriousness vanished in a fit of giggles. "The truth is, long ago, when I was a much less experienced sort of monster, I made a deal I shouldn't have. Even I make mistakes. Now, the marker's coming due, and this boy's father is the one who gets to call it in. Embarrassing, but, as I said, we all make mistakes." His smile turned predatory, his dark fangs flashing. "It's not a mistake I intend to repeat."

And, then, his expression was all innocent and kindly once again. "Well? Do we have a deal?"


	18. Jewels and Gold

Jefferson's attempt to explain kept getting bogged down in Alix's obsession with unimportant details.

"Gold's real name is Rumplestiltskin? _Rumplestiltskin?_"

"That's what I said."

"And the spinning wheel over there, that's _his_ spinning wheel?"

"Who else would it belong to?"

"And that's straw. And that stuff on the bobbin there, that's gold."

She hadn't been this incredulous when he'd dragged her through the room full of doorways and then out into this world through a hat, Jefferson thought with irritation. Not that turning straw into gold wasn't impressive but, come on, _everybody_ had heard about that – and, even if they hadn't, Jefferson had brought her here from _another world_. Wasn't that worth something?

"He spins straw into gold."

"For the hundredth time, yes. He's a _wizard_, all right? He does things like that."

"Straw," Alix said. "Into gold. Rumplestiltskin_._"

"Again, yes."

"_Rumplestiltskin._"

"Would it help you if we went back to calling him Gold? Because, I really don't have a problem with that."

"Jefferson, do you even know _who Rumplestiltskin is?_"

"Better than you do, I'm guessing. I live in this world, remember?"

"Yes, but – In my world, he's a fairy tale, a bedtime story for little kids." Alix gave him a quick summary of the story she knew with commentary. A miller (who, Alix thought, had probably been at the local pub and had one too many) went around saying his daughter could spin straw into gold ("Or," she added, "That's what it sounded like to the local king. Since the only thing that makes sense would be for the miller to be falling down drunk, whatever he was saying probably wasn't coming out too clearly").

The king (who was also, Alix opined, probably drunk) believed this whopper and had the miller's daughter carried off to his castle and a big prison room full of straw with orders to spin it all into gold by morning or die (this was followed by a long commentary by Alix on government, limited monarchy, the houses of parliament, and who she would have been voting for this year if - well, if things had been different).

Obviously, the girl was doomed - or would have been if a "little man" ("The book I had as a kid showed somebody who looked like Dobby the House Elf only with more hair and worse dress sense - Oh, you wouldn't know, Dobby, would you? Sort of like a marionette with a long nose and maybe as tall as my kneecap") hadn't shown up and offered to spin it for her ("And, get this, he spins straw into gold, right? But, the story has him doing it the first night for the girl's gold ring - and I don't know why the _poor_ miller's daughter has a gold ring. The second night he does it for her gold locket. You know, maybe the miller was involved in something illegal, smuggling or drugs or something, and he claimed to be poor on his taxes but really had all these valuables lying around. Maybe this whole spin-straw-or-die thing was payback. Although the king was still an evil, autocratic tyrant and a perfect example of the reasons for limiting the power of kings").

But, the third night, the king said that, if she spun it all into gold, he would marry her and make her his queen (Alix: "Married to the guy who keeps threatening to chop her head off! Ewww!").

By now, she was out of gold. But, the little man offered her a different deal. He would spin the straw into gold if she promised him her firstborn child.

Oh, Jefferson, one of _those_ deals.

"But, when the child is born, she somehow talks the guy into giving her a new deal - the story never says how, which is kind of weird, when you think about it. Anyhow, if she can guess his real name - in the world this story is set in, nobody knows his real name - she can keep the child.

"And, you know, if I think of this being Gold, it's _creepy_ what happens. The queen has people scouring all over the land, collecting names for her - apparently, in this story, Rumplestiltskin is willing to just stand around for _hours_ while she reads the lists off to him - and the last searcher to come in describes how he just _happened _to come by while this guy who fits the little man's description is singing a song about how Rumplestiltskin is his name. I mean, if that was Gold, you'd _know_ he had some kind of creepy reason for making sure she knew that, wouldn't you?"

Jefferson tried to imagine Rumplestiltskin _letting_ someone get the upper hand like that, practically handing it to them. It would have to be some kind of trap.

Or part of a joke. A really sick joke, possibly involving infected or something equally gruesome.

He wondered what had really happened. If the story was really true.

"Yes," he said. "He would have a reason. And you probably wouldn't want to know what it was. But, why would you even have a story about Rumplestiltskin? I _know_ he needed me to get to your world. I know he hadn't been there before. I know – hey, you don't have any stories about me, do you?" he asked with sudden suspicion.

"Not unless you're first name is Thomas, you hang out with guys named Benjamin Franklin and John Adams, and you wrote the Declaration of Independence. That's the only Jefferson I've heard of."

"Doesn't sound like me."

"Right, then. About Gold - and, you're right, I've got to call him Gold. I can't think of him as - I just can't, all right? What were the two of you doing in - in my world? Looking for firstborn babies left lying around?"

"Of course not," Jefferson said. But, the truth was . . . . "I don't know. There was something he _was_ looking for, something magic, I think. You know, I think he could have avoided _them_ entirely if he'd wanted. That didn't have anything to do with whatever he was after – and he knows some ways to make _them_ look the other way. I think just killed_ them_ because he was . . . bored."

"Bored."

"Probably."

"He saved our lives because he was bored. If he'd found a good crossword puzzle, we'd be dead. Is that what you're saying?"

"Oh. That. Uh, no. He saved you because – well, he might have anyway. If he'd been bored. Or some other reason. But, I made a deal with him."

"Excuse me?"

"I made a deal with him. I heard you screaming and I, uh, told him I'd give back half what he was paying me if he saved you."

"Oh," Alix said. "Thank you." There was an awkward pause. "You, er, seem to be making a habit of that. Saving me, I mean. Thank you."

Jefferson wasn't quite sure what he'd expected. Maybe Alix throwing herself into his arms in gratitude? Real life was nothing like the stories. "Oh, uh, don't mention it."

The uncomfortable silence stretched out.

"So," Alix said. "What's Gold paying you, anyway?"

"A bunch of diamonds. It was amazing. It was like a dragon's hoard, just lying around. Well, not lying around. It was in this big castle in your world. Gold kept most of them, but even at one in twenty – or one in forty, now – my share's huge."

"Wait. A castle? Jefferson, what did this castle look like?"

"Huh? Oh, it was white, mostly. Kind of a complex of towers, I guess. It's on the river. I remember there was a gate all chained up but where boats could have come through. It was an incredible place."

"An incredible . . . Jefferson, that's the Tower of London! You _– you stole the Crown Jewels!"_


	19. Leave Taking

Gold had predicted Moss would be difficult after he left.

"I _could_ take him with me," Gold said. "You too, if you wanted. But, this is strictly business. No time for fun and games, so it's better if you stay behind."

"I think you're the only person on this boat who considers travelling through a city full of bloodthirsty infected _fun_."

"I know, I know, but you can't blame me for wanting to broaden up your horizons, can you? But, I'm going to do this quickly. Relatively quickly. I _suppose_ I'll stick to going on foot . . . ." He seemed to muse over the alternatives. "However I do it, you can expect Moss to be difficult. For him, people going away is . . . not a _good_ thing."

Not a good thing for any of them, Ron thought, remembering Jase.

When they went down below deck, Gold had patiently explained his need to go on an errand and, as predicted, Moss had promptly fallen apart, begging Gold not to go.

Gold had spent most of the rest of the evening calming the boy down. He let Moss cling to him as he played games with him, read him to him from an alphabet book that looked like a medieval illuminated manuscript, and told him stories. In the end, when Moss seemed worn out with worry, Gold walked back and forth across the small room, carrying the boy as though he were a little baby, singing him songs that sounded like some version of Scots Gaelic till he fell asleep.

Except Ron knew Scots Gaelic. And he didn't understand more than one word in ten.

Most miraculous of all, he managed to get the boy tucked into his bunk, the stuffed dragon securely gripped in his arms, without waking him up.

After that, he produced two bottles of beer, homebrewed, and handed one to Ron. Ron wondered if Gold made it himself or if he had a favorite pub somewhere – or if he'd just found some lying around, probably in a pile of gore.

At least it was good beer.

"I'll stay till he wakes up," Gold said. "I don't think either of us want to deal with a five year old boy who expects people to vanish if he falls asleep. Like I said, he'll be difficult, but there's food and games to distract him with. He likes stories. Oh, and there's a sleeping draught in the cupboard over the sink. Use it if you get desperate. It's harmless," he added, seeing Ron's expression. "Just follow the instructions."

"Drug a five year old?"

Gold gave and exaggerated sigh. "Only if you get desperate, dearie. No one will _make_ you do it. As I was saying: food and games. Oh, and I suppose I'm supposed to say something like, 'If I don't return in three days, take the boat and get out,' but I should be back tomorrow evening. The day after at the latest."

"If you don't get back, _I_ don't know how to sail this thing. Getting out won't be an option."

Another sigh. "Do the words 'mountain out of a molehill' mean _anything_ to you? Come on up and I'll show you. Believe me, though, it's pretty easy. This boat practically sails herself."

"If it's that easy, why are you still here?"

Gold giggled. "First off, dearie, staying here isn't a problem for me. Second, what do you bet they have ships all around this island watching for survivors – or for any little, red-eyed friends the survivors might bring with them? An infected on a drifting boat, perhaps, or maybe just someone who chained up a loved one in hopes of finding help on the other side? What do you think they would do if they saw me?

"Which reminds me, I don't have any reason to go off and see how many watchdogs I can get shooting at me but, if you even think of taking this boat _before_ the third day, I'll come looking for you." His dark teeth glinted evilly as he smiled. "After all," he added, suddenly innocent. "I did _promise_ Moss, and one should always keep promises made to small children, don't you think?"

He had taken Ron up, showed him the basics of the sails and tiller, then brought him down and handed him another beer.

Ron wasn't sure what was in the beer, but he didn't remember going to bed. He also was quite sure he hadn't agreed to the tattoo that was on his hand.


	20. A Brief Conversation

"What is this?" Ron asked evenly, holding up his hand.

"Hmm, looks like a tattoo. Why? Haven't you ever seen one before?"

"Why is there a tattoo on my hand? And what, exactly, is it a tattoo _of?_"

"Oh, I understood it was a local custom. Before big events, friends go out, have a few drinks, and at least one of them wakes up the next morning with new tattoo and no memory of how he got it."

"I know exactly how I got it: you put it there."

"Really? I'd bet on Moss."

"Moss," Ron growled. "Can't. Draw. This. Well."

"He's been practicing."

"Gold, just tell me _why_ you put a tattoo on my hand."

Gold shrugged. "Believe it or not, it's for good luck. It's a protective mark where I come from. You might prefer large amounts of body armor, but I'm the superstitious sort. I like the occasional, protective rune. Besides, there's no body armor on the boat."

Ron flexed his hand. "So, why didn't _you_ get a tattoo?"

Gold held up his hand sorrowfully. "Scales. It won't take."

Ron looked at his palm. The mark was a sort of stylized wheel. "What is it? A mandala?"

"Spinning wheel. They're lucky where I come from." He grinned evilly at some private joke. "Or they are for the right people.

"I've got to go. Have a good time."


	21. Puzzle Pieces

Moss woke up screaming.

Ron had been reading up on deck – he'd tried reading below deck, but found himself becoming edgy, needing to be able to look up and see the shore, to see what might or might not be coming. He'd also decided he preferred it when the boat was moving. That way, even if something did spot them, the boat would be long gone before one of _them_ could even try swimming out to it.

Moss, as predicted, had been running him ragged since Gold left. At first, the boy was inconsolable. He cried . . . the way Ron would have expected a child to cry who'd been surviving _them_ if he'd thought about it. He made nearly silent, gulping sobs, sounding as though he were gasping for breath.

But, Ron had finally gotten him calmed down. Or Moss had cried himself out – for the present. Everything they did for the rest of the day ended with Moss having a tantrum or throwing a fit. Even though Ron was making sure Moss was winning when they played Draw Fish and Old Maid, Moss became frustrated at the cards – especially when Moss found out Ron had gotten his favorite pair of fish. When Ron found the toy box he had previously never noticed, Moss got upset when Ron helped him set up the toy train. Then, he got upset when he couldn't set up the track himself.

Finally, Ron let him run around the deck. That had problems, too. When Moss wasn't trying to climb the sail or find other ways to nearly fall off the boat and/or break his neck, he did things like grab the stick he'd used in his fighting lessons with Gold and attacked Ron with it.

By lunchtime, Ron was having second thoughts about using the sleeping potion.

But, he held firm. It also turned out he didn't need it. Moss got halfway through his food and promptly nodded off at the table.

Ron didn't have Gold's superhuman ability to move sleeping children without waking them. He did manage to very carefully shift the table over to being a bunk and cover Moss with a blanket, but that was as adventurous as he got.

He wound up on deck looking through Gold's copy of _Psychological Warfare_. The author, interestingly enough, seemed to be a humane man. Successful psywar, as he called it, meant making your enemy your friend and sending him home alive and well.

Gold's comments scrawled in the margins suggested he didn't entirely see the point of that.

And psychological warfare didn't work on _them_.

Then, Ron heard Moss' screams.

The boy had had a nightmare, that much was clear. He let Ron hold him and walk him back and forth, the way Gold had, till he finally began to calm.

But, he found he had to do it on deck. Just to be able to see.

Once they were there, Ron asked, "What did you dream?"

"_Them_," Moss said. "_Them. They_ took him."

_Them._ This was a nightmare Ron understood. "Who? Who did _they_ take?" If Moss said Gold, that was at least something he could reassure the boy about.

"_They_ took him," Moss cried. "_They_ took Jase."

Ron had been holding Moss comfortingly, about to say soothing, comforting things like _You're safe now_, even while part of him kept glancing to shore. Just in case.

_Jase._

_Soldiers._

"Jase," Ron said, feeling his way carefully. "Who was Jase?"

"He found me," Moss said. "He said how to get to your house. He told me over and over how to find it . . . ."

_Your house._

Moss.

Moss was the child Linda had tried to rescue.

The child Linda _had_ rescued.

Had . . . died rescuing.

No. _No. Nononononononono._

He tried to order his thoughts, shying away from the impossible, the question he was dying to ask, didn't dare ask.

"Jase," he said. "What happened to Jase?"

"Soldiers," Moss said. "He told me to hide. He talked to them. He tried to get away. _They_ hit him."

_They._

Moss said it the same way the rest of them spoke about the infected.

Soldiers. Or men Moss thought looked like soldiers. People with weapons who'd managed to survive. People Jase may have spoken to but that he hadn't trusted – he'd told Moss to hide while he spoke to them. People he'd tried to get away from who took him by force.

All right. He could accept that. Gold was a heavily armed lunatic Ron wasn't sure he'd have gone with if his boat hadn't been sinking.

The boat that just _happened _to sink just in time for Gold to show up and rescue him, Gold who was already traveling with Moss – and Moss had known who Ron was. _Your_ house, the boy had said.

Ron had a mental picture of Gold coming along in the dark and cheerfully putting holes through Ron's boat, then standing by till it looked like a good enough time to rescue him.

_Oh, yeah, that sounds like him._

No, focus. Jase was alive. Or had been. _They _–the infected – hadn't gotten him. Something human had taken him, something that hadn't killed him on sight.

That had to be a good thing.

Didn't it?

"You found . . . our house," Ron said. "Then, what happened?"

"_They_ found us," Moss said. "The sick people. _They_ tried to kill us. _They – they _got Mrs. Skinner. Her eyes are red. Gold came. He stopped _them._ He said – he said not to touch Mrs. Skinner. Not go near her. She wasn't safe."

_Linda._

_Oh, Linda, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

If he'd stayed, would it have made a difference? Would he be the one infected, not her? Could he have bought the extra time for Gold to save her?

Or . . . _was_ she alive? Gold said he was immune. He thought the infected were something to play games with. He didn't have any reason to kill one of them that wasn't bothering him.

Except for laughs.

He'd told Moss not to go near her. Surely, that meant she'd been alive.

Or alive when he said it.

Ron wanted to ask. Couldn't bear to ask.

How could he say that to a child? _Do you know if Gold killed her? Did he cut her down right in front of you? Or let her go? Or take her a little ways away where you couldn't see what he did to her and come back alone?_

Did he want to know the answer? Linda dead, because of him. Or worse than dead – worse than dead but still _alive._

How many people had died in the outbreak simply because they couldn't bear to fight the person killing them?

It would be better, Ron thought, to be dead than be one of _them_. Better to be torn apart and eaten while still alive.

But, if he hadn't killed Linda . . . .

Then, Moss pointed to the shore. "Look, someone's coming."


	22. Gems and Rats

"You stole the crown jewels!" Alix repeated.

"Uh . . . is that a bad thing?"

"Is that a – Jefferson, they're the _crown jewels_. They're national treasures. They're part of our _heritage._" They're country was destroyed, the survivors were scattered or cowering in dark rooms, and Jefferson and Gold had casually walked in and stolen one of the few things left to them. "You don't _steal _the _crown jewels._" She took a deep breath. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. You'll just have to put them back."

"I _what?_ To do that, I have to go back there –"

"Not you. Us. _We're_ going back there."

"Are you crazy? We barely got _out _of there. The only entrance I can find for you is in the keep which, last time I checked, was overrun with a bunch of psycho soldiers who were shooting at us."

"From what they said, they just wanted prisoners. We give them a few hours to make sure they've cleared out. Then, we go back."

"And do what, exactly? The keep isn't safe anymore. They know about it and can come back in anytime they want –"

Alix rolled her eyes. "We're not _staying_ there. We find Gold. He promised to keep us safe, right? He can deal with this."

"He promised to keep you safe for half of the jewels _you_ want me to put back. How do you think that's going to work?"

"Oh, good point." Alix thought it over. "All right, then. We get Gold, rescue the others, _then_ talk to him about putting the jewels back."

"Do the words 'turned into a slug' mean anything to you?"

Alix went as falsely sweet as she knew how. "Aww, and I thought we could _trust_ him."

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "To _keep a deal_. This isn't a _deal_. This is _suicide_. There's a _difference_."

"Yes. There is. And the difference is that _my grandparents_ have been captured by a bunch of murderous lunatics, and I'm going to help them – and _you're_ going to help me help them. Any questions?"

Jefferson gave up. "You know, when my great-grandfather said deals with Rum – with Gold could get complicated, he didn't tell me the half of it."

"Probably no – wait. Your _great_-grandfather?"

"Oh, don't give me that look. I said my grandfather before because even I can guess how it would have gone if I'd told you Gold knew my great-grandfather."

"How old _is_ Gold?"

"How should I know? He's been around for centuries. At least."

"When you said – when you told me he'd saved your grandfather, I pictured some old sergeant being saved by a snot-nosed kid. You made it sound like they were in the army together or something."

"Did I? They weren't. Although, I guess a war had something to do with it. Ages back, where I live, there was a war between the Ogres and the us – the people they call the Borderlanders. They –"

"Wait. Ogres?"

"Oh, do they have a different name in your world? Big guys, like kind of like people, tend to eat us if they get a chance?"

"You mean . . . like _them?_ Only . . . bigger." That was another good reason to get out of this world, she thought. As soon as possible.

"They're not as bad as _them_. These days, they mostly stay on their side of the border and we mostly stay on ours. Back during the Ogre War – that was centuries ago – Ru – uh, I mean Gold was supposed to have negotiated the peace with them."

"Gold negotiated? Somehow, I would have expected him to go in and kill everyone till there was no one left."

"Uh, that might have been how he negotiated. I couldn't say. Most of what you hear from back then are stories, and some of them are pretty crazy.

"But, the war was over and the peace has mostly held. But, when my great-grandfather was a kid, some Ogres came over the border and stole some children. My great-grandfather was one of them. Our village called on Rumplestiltskin to come save them. And he did."

"For an arm and a leg."

"Actually, no. There was a family here, they're supposed to have come from the hill country originally – they raise a lot of sheep there – they'd had a box handed down from their great-something-grandmother, Morraine, I think her name was supposed to have been. A beautifully carved thing. Centuries old and it still smelled of cedar. Anyway, Rum- Gold asked for it in return for saving the children."

"Just the box?"

"And what was inside it. Two locks of hair braided together. One was a sort of reddish gold-brown – I suppose it was Morraine's. You still see that color a lot in that family. The other was dark brown."

Alix rubbed her head. Jefferson came from the kind of village where people still remembered where family's had come from centuries before. And what they're great-something-grandmother's name was (although, to be fair, maybe no one in the village had remembered these things till Gold showed up and wanted something that had belonged to her). Right. She'd studied history. She knew about medieval villages. Accept it and move on.

"What did he do to the Ogres? Stab them?"

"Uh, not exactly. The way my great-grandfather told it – he was still alive when I was young – a traveling peddler showed up in the camp. He didn't ask too many questions about the captives the Ogres had. But he joined them around the campfire, did a little business, told some good tales, then pulled out a flute and played some music – maybe that sounds crazy to you, but Ogres are like that. Sometimes, they kill and eat people, sometimes they sit down and treat them like regular folks.

"Sometimes they do both. Don't ever spend the night in an Ogre's house if you can help it.

"Anyhow, he pulled out his flute and began to play. And the Ogres started dancing. And, then, they couldn't stop. My great-grandfather said the peddler transformed into – well, you know, into Gold. Then, he told the Ogres they had broken the deal. He waved his hand, and they turned into rats. Then, he picked up the flute, played it again, and the rats – great-grandfather said they were still dancing – went into a nearby stream and drowned.

"Then, Rumplestiltskin led the children home," Jefferson grimaced. "Great-grandfather also said that, when they got too tired to keep walking, he pulled out the flute again. When he played it, all their weariness melted away. They ran and jumped and . . . danced after him. Till they got to the village."

Rumplestiltskin. And Pied Piper.

And scarier than _they_ were even when he was saving the lives of little children.

"Then, he can save my grandparents. Even if I have to make a different deal with him, he can do it."

Reluctantly, Jefferson nodded. "He can – but, Alix, be _careful_ what you promise him – and make sure you _really _know what you've promised."


End file.
